


To Dust

by fortunesque



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-25 02:56:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 355,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3794050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortunesque/pseuds/fortunesque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a two-hundred year prison sentence in Akavir, a living legend returns to Tamriel only to find it in chaos. Haunted by the memories of her proud people and her past cruelty, will she be able to remember her forgotten skills in time to stop Alduin from destroying the world? (Contains Morrowind and Oblivion tie-ins)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A/n: Hello! Thank you for reading! I just wanted to say hi and thanks for checking out my new fic. It will tie in heavily with Morrowind and Oblivion. You don't have to have played these games to understand this fic. I would recommend a very quick read up on the main event points of both games (you can find a wealth of information on UESP, the Unofficial Elder Scrolls Pages). I think these things are discussed in Skyrim itself, though. I'm going to try my best to get the lore things right in this fic. Send me a note if you want me to send you any lore-specific articles :)

AND HEY if you like the other game tie-ins idea, you should check out Amhran Comhrac's fic “Under Distant Moon and Star”. (She's mah buddy :3) It's a great fic of a similar flavor and you will absolutely get Vvardenfeels.

**General warnings for this fic:** There will be violence and angst and sex and adult themes. It may contain homosexual relationships and/or polyamory. If there is anything that might be a trigger to someone (eg: rape), I will put it in an a/n at the top. I don't see this happening, though in this fic. I don't feel like it's going to be as dark as my Fallout fics.

 

* * *

 

 

_May I shrink to dust_

_In your cold, wild Wastes,_

_And may my tongue speak_

_Its last hymn to your winds._

_I pray for the herder_

_That whistles to his guar at play._

_I pray for the hunter_

_That stalks the white walkers._

_I pray for the wise one_

_That seeks under the hill,_

_And the wife who wishes_

_For one last touch of her dead child's hand._

_I will not pray for that which I've lost_

_When my heart springs forth_

_From your soil, like a seed,_

_And blossoms anew beneath tomorrow's sun._

 

"Words of the Wind”, an Ashlander Poem

 

 

 

4E 201, Skyrim

 

People spoke, their voices joining in with the sound of wagon wheels rattling against uneven cobbles. Her arms had fallen asleep long ago, each nerve on fire from having her wrists tied together behind her back so tightly that she couldn't cast if she tried. She went from getting out of a long prison sentence, only to be captured and imprisoned again.

She tried to think of where she'd been last, and how she got in this position, but her thoughts were interrupted by the person next to her.

“Wake up,” a voice called.

Mehra cracked her eyes open. How did this person think that she had been asleep? By the looks of his clothing, this man was a rebel.

“By Ysmir,” he swore, “not even these bumpy roads could wake you. You were caught too, in that Imperial ambush when you were trying to cross the border, same as that thief, weren't you?”

Mehra supposed so. There was nothing that could be done about it, though. Captured was captured, simple as that. She spent most of her life as a captive.

She remembered trudging through knee-deep snow, her limbs numb. Mehra didn't have much left, save the rags that clung to her malnourished frame and the sacred ring that reminded her of a time when she wouldn't have taken this. Another refugee from Morrowind, from times and places long past. She was supposed to go this way; she was supposed to go here, at that specific time.

One of the other prisoners swore at the man, tossing his hair back out of his face with a shake of his head.

“The Empire was lazy before you Stormcloaks came along,” he hissed. The thief turned to her and shook his head again.

“We don't belong here,” he grumbled, “we're not rebels.”

“We're all brothers and sisters in bonds now, thief,” the rebel shrugged.

Up ahead, one of the guards ordered them to be silent. The thief ignored it and gave a nod in the direction of the gagged man next to her.

“What's up with him?”

“Shut it!” the rebel barked, “You're speaking of Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.”

Mehra turned to watch the thief panic. This was the rebel leader. They were headed to their execution. She closed her eyes. She had known when they captured her. Mehra sighed and stared down at the grayed floorboards of the wagon. This was a strange way for the end to come upon her. After nearly two centuries in jail in Akavir, she was released only to meet her execution in Tamriel.

“General Tullius,” the rebel sneered, “and it looks like he brought the Thalmor. Damn elves; I bet they had something to do with this.”

“We certainly did,” Mehra smiled. She closed her eyes and let her head loll to the side.

The years felt heavy. Mehra hadn't heard the word “Nerevarine” in two hundred years, and maybe she liked it that way. She didn't think she'd ever hear it again either – not in this strange land. Maybe that was for the better.

The rebel continued to reminisce, and Mehra couldn't help but feel that perhaps, the man was as nervous as the thief. He knew this town and the people in it. The wagon stopped in front of a tower, a headsman standing in front. She hopped out of the wagon as best she could with her arms bound behind her back.

Mehra ignored the pleading of the thief as she shuffled in line toward the Captain nearby. They began to call names, and when they called the thief, he pleaded with them to not sentence him. As they denied him, panic overtook him, and he ran off, his useless bound hands causing him to stumble. Before he could gather his feet underneath him, the nearby archers shot him. They left him in the street, moaning and bleeding out.

They called names until she was the last one left. The man with the ledger didn't have her name.

“Who are you?” he asked, keeping his quill ready.

“Mehra Dreloth,” she replied. Without waiting to be asked, she spelled it out for him.

“Another refugee?” he sighed, “The Gods have really abandoned your people, elf.”

“Man has abandoned my people,” Mehra replied.

Those who overheard began to whisper amongst themselves, more than likely making nasty comments. She figured if those were her last words, then it would be satisfactory. Even more: where was Azura when the moon fell and the mountain erupted?

Her words must have struck a nerve, and the Captain ordered her to the block as well. The man writing her orders apologized and promised that her remains would be returned to Morrowind. Mehra swallowed thickly; there would be more ashes on that island, on top of ashes innumerable.

She followed the others to a line in front of the block, and listened as Tullius publicly denounced Ulfric Stormcloak for crimes innumerable. Mehra wondered what it would take for peace, and figured that it would be the end of the world before either side laid down their arms. Allow the Nords their Talos; keep all the other parts of the Concordant. Stop fighting before they destroyed the land and created more orphans.

Nobody would listen to an old Dunmer anyway.

A rumble sounded off in the distance, and Mehra glanced up toward the sky. This was no volcano, nor was it tremors; she'd heard the grumblings of such for years. It sounded like the roar of a daedroth.

The General ordered that the execution continue, regardless of interruption, and a priestess of Arkay began to recite their last rites. She called upon the Eight – the entire reason for the war – and was interrupted by a rebel volunteering to be first in order to make her quiet.

As he was forced down at the block, he shouted his last words.

“My ancestors are smiling at me today, Imperials! Can you say the same?”

Without further delay, he was beheaded.

“Next prisoner, the dark elf!” the captain called.

Mehra sighed. They wouldn't give her the dignity of calling her a Dunmer. As she approached the block, memories of a time long past came to her – of arms wrapped around her shoulders, shielding her from the wind as she stood atop a tall tower high above a sleeping town. Of the cold, of shivering and wondering if it was from the weather or from the thrill of being so excited about change.

Her head rested on the block. Blood warmed her neck.

Mehra closed her eyes and shivered. Death awaited her.

A roar echoed off the sides of the keep, rattling the windows of the nearby houses. It rumbled through her very being, and her heart roared in reply. Mehra's eyes slid open.

Hm.

There was a dragon on the keep.

Gathering her strength, she pushed off of the ground, her knees digging into the slushy dirt below. If she'd been younger – if she wasn't weakened and dull from her prison sentence, so many ifs – she would have found it terrifying.

“Dark elf get up!” the rebel shouted, “get up! The gods won't get us another chance.”

Instead, the small part of her brain that was yet animal sluggishly churned, prodding her to follow the rebels into the nearby guard tower.

It was a terrible place to hide, but she didn't have many options.

“Jarl Ulfric!” the rebel shouted, “is that a dragon? One from the legends?”

“Legends don't burn down villages.”

Mehra smiled and leaned back against the slimy wall.

“In my experience,” she countered, “they certainly do.” She closed her eyes. There was that one spell, that one time, where Erich cast fire on a wide area. It was...explosive. The Champion of Cyrodiil was a talented man, but fire didn't come naturally to him.

“Silly oaf.”

Mehra opened her eyes. The rebel and the would-be-king glared at her in mistrust. She must have spoken out loud.

“I'm senile,” she shrugged.

Wary of her, they untied each other’s' bonds, ignored hers, and began to run up the stairs. Just as the first rebel made it halfway up, the dragon burst through the wall of the tower, spewing flames with a ground-shaking roar.

She knew this sound.

Mehra climbed the stairs, staring after the creature.

The sound – a word, she now realized – must have been part of the dragon's incantation. Yes, she knew this word, but she didn't know how to say it, nor its meaning. She must have encountered it in her studies centuries before. No doubt, it was some ancient, forbidden knowledge from the Telvanni –

Her eyes met the dragon's red, slitted eye.

She remembered the sound of the fire incantation.

And he knew that she knew.

The dragon's third eyelid slid over the staring pupil, and in a split-second decision, the dragon lifted off from the tower, shouting and burning a path through the town once more.

Mehra caught up with the rebels and peered out the hole that the dragon left. Below, were the remains of a store, its roof smashed in and its walls on fire.

“I bet you could jump into the inn from here!” the rebel shouted. “Go on! We'll catch up with you!”

Mehra quirked her brow at the lot of them. A plan to get rid of the 'grey woman', no doubt.

Sighing, Mehra took a step back, then dashed forward to leap into the next building. The landing reverberated throughout her body, and her teeth clacked together violently on the impact, her vision flashing. She was out of practice.

Staggering to her feet, Mehra stumbled her way out of the building. If her hands were unbound, she could grab some food from the counter. She hopped down the stairs of the inn's destroyed porch and glanced around to attempt to find the best escape route.

“Hey, dark elf!”

Mehra wheeled around, her spell hand twitching uselessly behind her back.

It was the Imperial guard who took the execution ledger.

“Stay close to me if you want to stay alive.”

Mehra stared after him, pondering his words. The Imperial captain was nowhere to be seen, and from the sympathetic look he gave her earlier, she supposed that he opposed executing her. Still, she couldn't be too sure.

“Please, follow me. I won't harm you!” he called.

She allowed the guard to keep his delusions. He hadn't proven himself trustworthy, just like the rebel. Neither offered to cut her bonds.

She followed the guard as best she could, ducking behind stone walls to dodge the dragon's fire. Ahead was the keep.

The dragon descended again, landing on the other side of the wall. She heard it inhale deeply as it gathered a breath for another blast. Her hair stood on end at the tell-tale gathering of magic. Before it let go, Mehra noticed the unmistakable smell of old books.

“Come on, prisoner!”

Shaking her head, she darted out from her cover to see the rebel running in the same direction as the guard.

“Ralof, you damned traitor, get out of my way!”

The rebel crossed his arms.

“We're escaping, Hadvar, and you're not stopping us this time.”

“Fine! I hope that damn dragon takes you to Sovngarde!”

Shaking his head, the rebel – Ralof – called out to her so they could escape together. Hadvar shouted a counter-offer that amounted to, “follow me, not him!”

Mehra closed her eyes and sighed. If she were truly honest, she would be better off with the seemingly repentant lackey of the executioner, rather than the wanted criminal associated with a band of marauding rebels that wanted nothing to do with anyone aside from other Nords.

With her mind made up, she ran along with the Imperial soldier.

“Quick! I can cut you loose inside the keep.”

Good choice.

The keep doors slammed shut behind them, and her eyes began to adjust to the dimly lit living quarters. Hadvar drew his dagger and approached her. “Let me get those bindings off.”

The dagger sliced into the rope, freeing her sore wrists.

“There you go. Take a look around for some equipment. I'm going to look for something for these burns.”

Mehra sighed as she looked at the red skin on his arms.

“I'd heal them, but I'm too weak right now,” she admitted.

“You know healing magic?”

Mehra turned to look through the room for things of use.

“Sure do. I learned a bit from a woman named Sharn gra-Muzgob. Turned out to be a necromancer. Kind of odd that she was interested at all in healing magic. I haven't practiced in such a long time though.”

Opening a cabinet revealed a sad, wrinkly apple. Her stomach growled as she snatched it and bit down with little examination.

She was eating, right? Was there a flavor to this apple? Mehra tried to tell herself to calm down and eat slower, but her mouth took on a life of its own. The entire apple was gone in seconds.

She needed more.

“I'll be on the lookout for something for you to eat as we leave,” Hadvar said. “At least, something portable.”

Mehra turned to face him. In his outstretched hands lay a worn set of Imperial armor. It was something at least. He continued to search the room as she dressed.

“So, do you know any other magic?”

“Some of everything.”

The armor was large, but she couldn't be too picky. At least it was Imperial-sized, rather than made for a Nord. She supposed that there wouldn't be much to fit her undernourished body, regardless. Mehra could find something suitable later.

“Ah. Where did you study?”

“Morrowind, mostly.”

Anything more than that, she wouldn't say. Mehra didn't quite know what she was dealing with.

Thankfully, he didn't bother asking more, and instead, handed her a sword.

“Pardon, can you please repeat your name to me? I want to make sure I pronounce it right.”

“Mehra. And thank you.”

Hadvar shrugged and led her through the door on the far end of the room.

Voices echoed from down the hallway, and the pair crouched.

“Stormcloaks,” Hadvar whispered. “Maybe, they'll leave us alone today.”

It wasn't to be. As soon as the Stormcloaks caught sight of them, they attacked. Mehra fought as if she were a dwemer sentry; automatic and detached, coming back into herself when the threat disappeared.

“You sure know how to handle a blade,” Hadvar remarked, pulling his sword out of the chest of a fallen soldier.

Mehra thanked him with a shrug as they made their way down a corridor and into another room. The smell of rabbit stew hit her.

Food.

There was food here.

The keep rumbled along with her stomach, and Mehra wondered if there was time to suck down a quick bowl.

“We've got to get out of here. Come on!”

Hadvar led her deep into the keep, toward what he said was a secret escape route out through the mountain.

A secret tunnel exit wasn't a secret if everyone knew about it. If an attack – an attack that wasn't a dragon burning the town down – occurred, then the keep would have been left wide open for an assault. The Stormcloaks must have known about it. As Mehra followed Hadvar from the keep into a series of caverns, they encountered dozens of them.

“I suppose that if the dragon hadn't attacked,” Mehra mused, “that you would be neck-deep in Stormcloaks. Perhaps that Ulfric fellow would have been rescued.”

She knelt down in front of the mountain spring running through the cavern. It bubbled up nearby from a pile of rocks; it had to be safe to drink. Sighing, she scrubbed her hands under the frigid water, and then cupped a handful of it to her face.

“Can't tell if they're going in or coming out, can we?” Hadvar shook his head as crouched next to a slain enemy, rifling through the rebel's bag. He pulled out a piece of bread and cheese, and took them over to Mehra.

She nodded a quick thanks then stacked the cheese on top of the bread, tearing into both at the same time.

“Not a proper meal, but it's something. You'll probably need quite a few meals to regain your strength.”

Mehra swallowed the dry food.

“Did she have any money on her?”

Hadvar frowned and looked back at the fallen Stormcloak. Sighing, he whispered an apology, grabbed the bag, and tossed it toward Mehra.

“She's not going to need it,” Mehra said. She shook the bag and heard jingling.

“That isn't the point. The food is one thing; taking money off of kin is another.”

“I never understood the concept.”

Her hand found a coin purse in the bottom of the bag. Snatching it up, she tied it to the belt of the armor.

“You have no family? No friends you would call kin?”

Mehra sighed. The question was difficult.

“I was born on an uncertain day to uncertain parents. And, I tend to outlive friends.”

Part of her remembered the love and warmth of many, but this was from another life long ago.

“You do not have to wander life alone,” he murmured.

Mehra looked up to meet his eyes. He held her gaze for a brief moment before turning away.

He knew that she had given up.

“We need to keep moving,” Hadvar sighed.

“Always,” Mehra mumbled.

He didn't comment as she followed him through the winding caverns, until they reached a small tunnel leading toward a bright light. Mehra shielded her eyes as they stepped out of the cavern onto a small path leading down the mountain. They crouched and crept over to a nearby rock to take a look around.

“Dragon could still be around,” Hadvar whispered.

Mehra nodded and glanced back toward the smoking ruins of Helgen. True to the guard's word, a roar sounded, and soon after, the dragon took off and flew overhead toward a nearby mountain.

“He's gone near Bleak Falls Barrow,” Hadvar said, “Hope he didn't land there. Riverwood is at the base of that mountain.”

The snow in front of them was crisp and clear. Stepping out of the hiding place, Mehra gave Hadvar a small smile.

“At least we know there's no Stormcloaks around here. There's no footprints.”

“A good thing, too,” he nodded, “we made good work of them in the caverns, but I doubt we'd hold half the army off.”

They took off down the path, descending out of the snowy mountain and toward a distant river. As they walked, Hadvar's steps became lighter.

“You know, you should think of joining the Imperial Legion,” he said. “We could use a fighter like you. If you go to Solitude, you could sign up.”

Mehra shrugged in indifference. If she were completely honest, a large part of her didn't care if she lived or died.

“Why not?” Hadvar smiled. “I'm certain your execution was a mistake. I can get any issues cleared up for you. And I'll do it no matter what you decide to do.”

There was something honest about the kid that made Mehra laugh. He didn't get it.

“What?”

“It's been a long time since I got involved in Empire business.”

“I'm sure that it's not too long.”

“About two hundred years.”

Hadvar stopped and laughed, stopping short when she didn't join in.

“I'm serious,” Mehra deadpanned.

In front of them was a road sign. Mehra took a look at it, getting her bearings as best she could. She studied the lay of Skyrim many years ago, but it was quite possible that things had changed.

“You don't look a day over twenty,” Hadvar whispered.

“Well, aren't you a flatterer?”

Hadvar bit his lip and looked down at the ground. Silently, he continued to lead her down the hill, occasionally glancing back. It seemed that he suddenly had cold feet. Mehra was never really good at keeping her mouth shut, and the weight of centuries and the countless more she would endure made her occasionally more reckless.

She had arrived, she supposed. This was why the old Telvanni Masters were grouchy and hedonistic. She saw the charm of being centuries, even thousands of years old, and performing a ritual to be youthful again. Messing with the 'kids' must have been fun for some.

Mehra ought to have looked to one of her colleagues to find a life companion. Now, she was quite certain that none of the Third Era greats were left. At least, she hadn't heard any sign of them. Mehra hadn't really looked, though.

“I meant nothing by it, Hadvar.”

He glanced at her again.

“And I didn't mean to sound rude, ma'am.”

Hadvar's Nord country-boy manners struck an old scar in her heart. Mehra swallowed the ache and gave him a nod.

They continued on until the road ended into another. A trio of Standing Stones marked the left side, just before the junction. The only three that could be there would be the Guardian Stones. Hadvar confirmed this by pointing them out.

“I've read about them,” she replied, “but I didn't think to go see them in person. Stones similar to these can be found all around Cyrodiil.”

Mehra approached the circle of stones and sat, her back leaning against the Mage Stone. Its energy pulsated against her back, filling her with a strong desire to continue to learn the secrets of magic.

“The stones want people to learn,” she sighed.

Hadvar nodded and Mehra closed her eyes. The energy felt good.

“You're very welcome to join me in Riverwood,” Hadvar said. “My uncle, Alvor, is the blacksmith there. I have no doubt that he can help you get started and give you a meal or two. I owe you a lot for helping back there. I'm not sure if I could have made it out on my own.”

Mehra smiled, keeping her eyes closed.

“You may have made it out fine,” she said. “Allow me to rest here and go on up ahead. I might join you.”

Her eyes slid open to slits and Hadvar gave her another 'ma'am' before continuing down the road to the right.

As soon as he was out of sight, Mehra stood and glanced around. She spun on her heel back up the path in the opposite direction. She had to get lost, and fast.

With that decided, Mehra headed to Falkreath.

Her path took her beyond the snow, toward a pine forest. As Mehra walked toward Falkreath, she spied a path winding up the hill, and what looked like a hidden statue at the top. Long ago, she would have explored every off-shooting path, and while the desire was long gone, she felt compelled to take this one. It didn't look too far out of her way, regardless. She picked her way up the hill, just to see what was there.

The smell of death and the sight of a statue of Talos hit her at the same time.

She reached the top and took in the sight of dead worshipers, and a lone Thalmor Justicar, his corpse not far from the worshipers.

She understood, in a way, why the Thalmor wanted the worship of Talos outlawed. Here was this man – the founder of the Empire they sought to conquer – worshiped as a god for no reason to them other than the fact that he founded the Empire.

And history had a way of being obscured. People forgot her name and simply referred to her as 'Nerevarine', they forgot Erich's name and called him 'Champion', and they forgot that it was the blood of Tiber Septim that helped open the gate to Mankar Camoran's paradise so that the Oblivion gates could be sealed once and for all.

But it was no reason to stamp out said worship. Let them do what they wished. This wasn't harmful like the worship of Dagoth Ur and joining the Sixth House.

Mehra stooped over the Justicar, searching along his belt for his purse. Unable to find it, she nudged him with her foot and tipped him over to find it. She counted 200 gold inside, and she was well on her way to getting a set of armor that didn't paint a giant target on her back.

With that done, she made her way back down the slope and onto the road toward Falkreath.

Each minute that passed brought more trees and somewhat warmer air. The road turned from smooth dirt to chipped cobblestones, leading her straight toward a small town.

She just hoped that they didn't mind the Imperial armor. She'd been in a tough spot, after all. With nothing much to lose, Mehra strode into the town with as much confidence as she could muster.

As soon she stepped foot in, the guards flanking the entrance gave her a nod. An older man walking down the street cocked his head to the side.

"We don't get many adventurers around here anymore," he said.

Mehra smiled at him. "Is it that obvious that I am not an Imperial Soldier?"

He laughed and nodded. "Takes one adventurer to know one. Name's Thadgeir."

She reached out and shook his calloused hand. "Mehra," she said.

"Where'd you travel from?" he asked. "You're covered in soot."

Mehra frowned. She hated to come into a town and tell them bad news.

"Helgen. It was attacked by a dragon. I don't know if there are any survivors. I had to grab this armor and get out while I could."

The man's eyes widened.

"That's where it was going," he awed. "Some of us saw it in the sky. Figured it could be witchcraft."

Mehra shook her head. She wished it were an illusion.

"Helgen is in the Falkreath hold," Thadgeir said, "the Jarl must be notified immediately."

“Would it be wise to talk to talk to him dressed in this, or ought I visit a trader?” Mehra asked. She motioned toward the oversized Imperial armor hanging off of her shoulders.

Thadgeir crossed his arms and frowned.

"Better to be cautious,” he replied. “Try Grey Pine Goods, right next to you.”

Mehra thanked him and turned around. She trudged up the stairs and opened the rough door to enter the shop. It was a rather normal trader, and from a quick glance around, it seemed like they might have what she needed.

The man behind the counter greeted her with a smile just as another made his way down the stairs. He wasn't as impressed as the man behind the counter, and he scowled and crossed his arms, jerking his head in her direction.

“I can't believe we let provincials like you wander around Skyrim.”

Mehra narrowed her eyes, spun on her heel, and threw the door open, allowing it to slam behind her. If that was what the man's opinion was, then they certainly didn't need her business.

Huffing, she spied a smithing shop nearby. Perhaps they would be more welcoming. Mehra walked down the street and approached a man who sat at a grindstone. He stopped in his work and looked up at her expectantly.

“Do you serve Dunmer in this establishment?” she drawled.

“Why wouldn't I?”

“I've had some issues,” Mehra replied.

“No problem here. The name's Lod. What are you looking for?”

Mehra began to discuss a deal with him to have a basic set of leather armor in trade for her current set and some coin. Lod was a tough negotiator, but they were getting somewhere. That was when she heard footsteps behind her.

It was the man behind the counter from the general good store. His bit his lip as he looked at her, his face red.

“Miss, I wanted to apologize for my brother,” he said. “I am truly embarrassed. Unlike my brother, I've no issue with strangers. I met many in my travels.”

Mehra nodded and accepted his apology.

“If you do want to come by, I will give you a discount for your troubles.”

She thanked him and watched him leave. When he was out of sight, Lod cleared his throat.

“How about I give you that discount and I let you change behind the tanning rack before someone thinks you're a real Imperial soldier?”

Mehra chuckled and agreed. They came to an agreement on a final price, and Mehra slipped behind the heavy screen of the tanning rack to gear up. The leather armor fit somewhat better, and the pants would certainly be warmer than the Legion's tunic style armor.

Her stomach growled, reminding her that she'd only eaten a tiny apple and some bread with cheese. She would find a proper meal and a place to sleep after she told the Jarl about Helgen.

Mehra made her way over to the largest building in the town, assuming that it belonged to the Jarl. The guards at the front stopped her and asked her business.

"A dragon attacked Helgen. I wanted to report this to the Jarl so he can take whatever actions he considers appropriate."

The guards nodded in agreement and allowed her to pass. Mehra stepped across the threshold to the Jarl's longhouse, taking in the Imperial officers and civilians dotting the great room. At the front and center, a young man slouched on a throne, not bothering to hide his boredom. Mehra approached him and gave him a modest salute.

"What do you want?" he yawned.

"I come bearing news about Helgen," she replied. "It has been burned to the ground by a dragon. I do not know if there are many survivors."

The Jarl didn't bother to sit up.

"Legate Skulnar, wasn't Tullius there?"

The Legate nodded and frowned.

"With your permission," he said, "I would like to take a detachment of guards to check on the town. We will report with what is needed. There may be refugees."

The Jarl sighed.

"Not too many guards. I don't want them asking for extra pay for doing this. And see if refugees can be serviced there."

He turned his eyes to Mehra and waved his hand.

"You can go now."

Mehra shrugged and didn't bother to reply. She knew his type. Turning around, she left the Jarl's longhouse, an Altmer noblewoman following her. As soon as the door closed behind them, the woman cleared her throat.

"Madam," she said, "I am Nenya, Jarl Siddgeir's steward. Thank you for coming and informing us of what happened to Helgen. What is your name?"

"Mehra." She wasn't about to give a full name. It was fortunate that her given name was common.

Nenya reached down to her coin purse, grabbed a handful of coins, and pressed them into Mehra's hands.

"Mehra, please get a room for the night and a meal at the inn," she said. "You are most welcome here. The Jarl is young. I appreciate your understanding."

Mehra smiled at the woman and thanked her, knowing exactly what she meant by 'I appreciate your understanding':

Do not spread it around that the Jarl is lazy and uncaring.

The coin wasn't enough to excite her, and truthfully, wealth didn't mean much to her anymore. It was, however, beyond Mehra's scope of caring to bother to gossip about Jarl Siddgeir.

She supposed she ought to eat. Besides the apple, bread, and cheese, she didn't remember the last time she bothered to have a full meal.

With the sun setting behind her, Mehra walked down the worn cobbles of Falkreath toward the inn. She knew she had to eat, but she just wanted to go to sleep. Her weary feet took her to the inn, a sign outside labeling the place named 'Dead Man's Drink'. The name was interesting enough, she supposed.

Weary, Mehra opened the door and stepped in. With the coin from Nenya, she ordered a room and a hot bowl of stew. She took the bowl and brought it to the farthest, darkest corner of the inn, hoping that nobody would bother her.

It wasn't to be. The door swung open, and Thadgeir called to the innkeepers behind the bar. He then spied her in her corner, smiled, and walked on over.

“I hate to ask you to do another thing,” he said. “But, there's a tiny mill town on the river near Helgen. It's called Riverwood. Now, they're not part of our hold, but they could use some protection. They would be defenseless against a dragon.”

“There was a young man with family from there who helped me out of Helgen,” she sighed. “I suppose I do owe them. Where should I go to get help?”

“Whiterun,” Thadgeir replied. “It is very close to Riverwood. If they haven't heard of the dragon attack yet, someone should tell them.”

Mehra sighed and looked down into her stew.

“I'll do it,” she murmured. “I don't like getting involved anymore, but I'll do it.”

She had the distinct feeling that the whole thing was some sort of divine trap.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you, everyone, for such a warm welcome! It's always intimidating to start out in a new fandom, and I've appreciated every view and review.

(I love the Elder Scrolls so much that I have a greyhound named Talos. I have a problem.)

 

* * *

 

_  
Life isn't over. You can still get smarter, or cleverer, or more experienced, or meaner...but your body and soul just aren't going to get any younger._

 

* * *

 

4E 0. Cyrodiil.

 

Finding her way into Chancellor Ocato's party wasn't too difficult. Yes, House Telvanni was a bit of a bad word in some circles, but the Chancellor seemed to want to make nice with any group that would support him.

That was how Mehra found herself being introduced to the Champion of Cyrodiil, the man who put an end to Mehrunes Dagon's schemes and ensured that Oblivion stayed where it belonged.

He was tall, even for a Nord. The Champion bowed in introduction, strings of unbound, snowy hair tumbling in front of his face. Nearby Altmer frowned at him in distaste; apparently, he was an unsavory sort.

“Erich Heartfire,” he beamed, his smile full of warmth.

“Heartfire as in the month,” the Champion continued, “nothing about heroes of old or fire or passion or anything of that sort.”

“Mehra Dreloth, House Telvanni,” she replied. The man's clueless nod was almost charming; nobody outside of Morrowind knew or cared to know about the Great Houses.

He glanced around the room as if looking for escape, his face turning red. Obviously, the man had no clue how to navigate an evening with wealthy and influential people. But Mehra felt charitable that evening, and it most certainly had nothing to do with the Champion's handsomeness.

“You will get used to it,” she smiled, “though when you first start out in high society, it is overwhelming.”

“Oh, it's not that,” he replied, giving her a shy glance.

She didn't follow. He certainly wasn't getting silly over her.

“Forgive me,” he smiled, “but I do not know much of House Telvanni. Tell me about your people.”

“Outside of court politics, intrigue and the like,” she shrugged, “we are a collective of wizards. We prize knowledge and the study of magic above all else.”

Mehra waited for the telltale grimace of the Nord's distaste toward magic, but none came. There was a nod, and a small look of wonder as the Champion sorted out his thoughts – if he had any; the man appeared somewhat slow. Nords had a reputation as such.

Yet, she detected no accent. Perhaps, he was born in Cyrodiil?

“And your people?” she asked. Mehra didn't care much for Nord culture, but she had to go through the motions.

“Shadows.”

Mehra nodded in agreement at his interesting answer; she was a bit of an outcast in her house, and never felt like she belonged anywhere. She was the young upstart, rumored to be sleeping with everyone on the council in order to gain their favor. And the Morag Tong never quite worked out for her.

"I have inherited a tower in the mountains,” the Champion nodded, “a wizard's tower. It is full of spellmaking things, tomes and all sorts of things that I want to learn about. Would you like to learn how to handle a blade?”

One of the ladies nearby coughed on her drink as she overheard the inappropriate suggestion. No doubt the Champion would be rumored to have an affinity for Dunmer on the very next day.

“If you truly knew about Telvanni wizards,” Mehra replied, “you may think twice at extending an invitation.”

“I've probably been through worse,” he shrugged, “and besides, I thought you said your people prize knowledge above all else. I'm sure you've done more scandalous things than be alone in a tower with a man.”

“Well, maybe if you're lucky, I'll show you,” Mehra laughed, surprised at her own bawdy suggestion. She wasn't seriously flirting with this man, was she?

Mehra watched as his eyes lit up in mirth, his laugh ringing out and making the room grow warmer. The straight, glossy mess of silvery hair fell in front of his eyes, and he tossed his head quickly to move it.

A crowd of eavesdropping, high-society Altmer turned to glare at her and sauntered off in a pack, whispering about classless Telvanni mages. Mehra didn't care; she found the exact thing she needed to have a distraction from Morrowind.

The Champion didn't know that she had excellent blade skills, and she certainly wasn't going to argue with him.

 

* * *

 

 

4E 201. Falkreath.

 

Mehra groaned and stretched in bed. She hadn't been kept up very late by the curious townspeople, but it felt like she barely slept. Rubbing her eyes, she listened carefully to the sounds outside her room and concluded that it was either very early, or very late. Mehra slid out of the bed with a sigh.

She was still in her leather armor; she didn't quite trust the town, not after the comment on 'provincials like you' or some such nonsense. Mehra knew better; she was 'other' to at least one person in the town, and she'd better watch out. It was why she wore her armor and sword to bed.

All there was to do was put on the worn boots at the foot of her bed. A quick step in to them and a tug on the laces, and Mehra was off. She opened the door to her room, returning a nod to the innkeeper.

"Thought I'd let you rest," she said. "You went through a lot yesterday. I know it's late morning, but I've got some left over breakfast, if you'd like. Or, you can wait around. Lunch will be ready in an hour."

But Mehra wasn't hungry, so she took an apple, only after the innkeeper’s insistence.

Leaving the inn, Mehra made her way to the front gate of Falkreath, stopping to give Thadgeir a quick nod. He wished her well, and Mehra made sure to let him know that she would get aid for Riverwood.

Then, she left, not certain if she'd ever return to Falkreath. She didn't like making ties and she'd made enough of an impression on the town that they wouldn't likely forget her anytime soon. It didn't seem like Dunmer traveled through there very often.

As she took the path back toward Riverwood, Mehra spied many ruins and side-paths on her way. There was a time where she would have explored them and plundered whatever she could from each destination, but the desire was gone completely.

Eventually, she ended up back at the Guardian Stones.

Mehra closed her eyes and steadied herself next to the mage stone. She was in laughable shape compared to her younger days. But she had been incarcerated for almost two centuries, so Mehra supposed it was somewhat excusable.

Catching her breath, Mehra pushed off of the stone and trudged down the worn path toward Riverwood.

The road ran parallel to a meandering river, and on the other side, a large mountain and the dark stones of the barrow Hadvar mentioned the other day. Mehra didn't see any signs of the dragon and hoped that it had disappeared far away.

She continued onward, ignoring the off-shooting path to the right and concentrated on following the main road as it widened out to touch the stony banks of the river. Rounding a corner of a rocky outcropping, Mehra stopped at the sight the greeted her.

The river continued onward, surrounded by mountains and pines that scattered sunlight on the worn road. She wondered if, perhaps, Red Mountain was once so lush and peaceful. Closing her eyes, Mehra breathed deeply and said a quick prayer for the people of Morrowind, and those of Vvardenfell.

If Vivec had put his pride aside and destroyed Baau Dar, the Red Year would have never happened. Should have gone up with levitation to the damned thing and gone after it with pickaxes; if it was hollowed out already to make a monument to Vivec, then it could be torn down. But the people clung to the lies of the poet, she supposed.

Mehra sighed and shook her head. What happened, happened.

She continued onward, the path winding uphill and around another bend. Rounding the corner of another large rock, Mehra saw a small town through the trees. This had to be Riverwood.

The journey hadn't been too far. Mehra turned and looked back in the direction of Helgen and frowned. Thadgeir was right; Helgen and Riverwood were too close for comfort, and the tiny town in front of her would be entirely defenseless if a dragon attacked.

With purpose, Mehra walked toward the crumbling, short stone wall lining the town and crossed in. It was small; offhand, she spotted about a few dozen dwellings of various sizes. There were around a hundred people living here, at most. To the side, a water wheel lazily churned in the water, powering a wood mill.

River. Wood.

Mehra shrugged. Given that Sadrith Mora translated to “mushroom forest”, she didn't have much right to jest at the unimaginative name.

Also on the left side of the road, just in front of the mill was a blacksmith's shop. Hadvar said his uncle owned this place, yes?

Hadvar emerged from the attached house, answering her question.

“Oh! Mehra! So you did decide to stop by.” He gave her a broad grin and a wave, then turned toward the man at the whetting stone to say something to him. The man put the blade that he was working on down then turned to wipe his hands.

Mehra waved and walked up to the smith's shop, giving Hadvar credit for remembering her foreign name. Now, how was she to excuse herself for not following him?

“I, um –”

“No need,” Hadvar said. “I understand not wanting to follow. You have no need to explain yourself.”

Mehra chuckled.

“Does everyone in this province speak this plainly?” she asked. Erich never minced words either, come to think of it. Still, he had great skill in choosing the proper words.

“I suppose so,” Hadvar laughed. “Er, anyway, this is my uncle, Alvor. I told him how you helped me get out of that mess in Helgen.”

Alvor reached forward and shook her hand. He was a typical Nord – tall and muscular, with sandy blond hair and hazel eyes, and a scruffy, full beard.

“You are always welcome in my home,” he declared.

“I appreciate that,” she replied.

Alvor bit his lip and looked at his store of weapons. Shaking his head, he picked out a steel sword and handed it to her.

“The iron sword you've got will rust if you're carrying it along on journeys,” he grumbled. “Give me that and take this instead.”

Behind them, the door to the house opened. A woman stepped out and frowned when she saw Mehra. Ignoring it, Mehra took the gift sword by the hilt and examined it.

“This is your work?” she asked.

Alvor nodded.

“A fine blade,” Mehra said. “Thank you.”

Hadvar turned to the woman behind them and smiled.

“This is the woman I was telling you about,” he said. “She helped me escape Helgen.”

The woman stepped forward, though she appeared displeased. Perhaps it was that her husband gave her a sword. Regardless, Mehra knew a jealous person from the instant she saw them.

“Mehra, this is my Aunt Sigrid,” Hadvar said.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Mehra nodded. She didn't say anything more; if she thanked Sigrid for Alvor's hospitality, it would only make things worse. Part of her wondered why the woman seemed so angry; Mehra was certain that she looked downright dumpy.

The door swung open again, a child calling loudly as it slammed behind her.

“Papa! I want to help at the forge!”

Sigrid turned and chastised the child for being loud and unladylike, and requested that she help in the garden. The little girl, Dorthe, screwed her face into a look of disgust.

Alvor chuckled and motioned Dorthe to come over to him. She bounded over, leaving her frowning mother behind. Perhaps, Sigrid's anger had nothing to do with Mehra.

As the child fidgeted next to her father, Alvor sighed and looked at Mehra.

“There's something you could do for Riverwood,” he said, “If there are dragons around, our town will be completely defenseless.”

“Falkreath said so much,” she replied. “They said that I should talk to Jarl Balgruuf. That's why I'm back here.”

Alvor looked relieved.

“Well, Hadvar,” he said, “I approve of your taste in friends. She's got honor and has good taste in blades.” He gave Dorthe a wink.

“Miss Mehra!” the child said. “Do you fight? Do you know magic?”

Sigrid frowned at Mehra.

“I do a little of both,” she said.

“Can you show me?” Dorthe asked. “I want to see a fireball!”

Behind Dorthe, Hadvar shook his head.

“It's not safe to cast a fireball in town,” Mehra chuckled. She wasn't sure if she could cast an impressive one, regardless.

Dorthe hung her head in disappointment, murmuring a 'yes ma'am'. The respect that the child showed to her must have struck a nerve with Sigrid, who disappeared around the other side of the house, presumably to the garden.

Desperate to change the subject, Mehra gave Hadvar a nod.

“So, I'm assuming you have to report back soon?”

Hadvar nodded.

“Probably back in Solitude,” he said. “It's a very long way to get there. I just need some rest. I've seen combat before but –”

He didn't finish his sentence to save the ears of the child nearby. Mehra didn't have to know, either; it was the fire, the teeth, the screaming. Everything.

“The Legate in Falkreath went with a detachment to Helgen to check on survivors,” she murmured. “Might be tough, but you may want to report back there.”

Hadvar closed his eyes, sighed, and gave a nod. Mehra had no words that could comfort him. Shaking her head, Mehra figured that there was nothing more she could do.

“I need to get to Whiterun,” she announced. “How far is it?”

Hadvar nodded in agreement.

“It's down this main road,” Alvor directed, “across the bridge and to the right. Follow the path there and you won't miss it. A few hours, at most.”

“Sounds good. I'll see what I can do. I suppose if I leave now, I'll get there around sunset?”

Alvor nodded. “Sounds about right.”

“I'll go right away, then,” Mehra said. “They can send guards out first thing in the morning. There will be less delay.”

Hadvar sucked in a breath and shook his head. “Divines bless your feet,” he said. “Literally.”

Mehra laughed and turned toward the road out of town.

“I'll let you know if they do,” she called. Mehra was fortunate enough to be released from prison in Akavir; that was a blessing in and of itself. Her feet would be fine.

With that, she left the warmth of the forge and made her way down the road. Mehra caught sight of Sigrid working in the garden, and figured she'd better say goodbye. She turned to say something, but Sigrid beat her to it.

“You're pretty enough, but stay away from my husband.”

“I had no intentions on him,” Mehra said. “Nor will I ever.”

“Good,” Sigrid groused. “Going to Whiterun?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

She gave Sigrid a nod, then followed the road out of Riverwood. Whatever problems they were having were none of her business.

Sure enough, the road took her down and across the river via an old bridge. The path wound around a corner and wound in a serpentine next to the river's rolling rapids. Hours passed in this manner, until the trees began to thin. Through the nest of pines ahead, she saw a city topped with a huge wooden keep, the likes of which she had never seen. If Riverwood could be protected, it would definitely come from Whiterun.

The city itself sat on a massive hill of stones in the middle of a scraggly sea of grass that rippled in the wind, shining silver and gold in the fading sun. The expanse of grass reminded her of the grazelands of Vvardenfell, and her heart ached to see ashlanders and guar instead of Skyrim's shaggy cattle and fur-cloaked Nords.

The area around the city was dotted with farms, but one in particular drew her interest. A giant stood in the middle of the crops, staring down a group of warriors who approached from a road that led from the city.

Curious, Mehra picked up her pace, skipping large chunks of the road to get there faster.

The warriors reached the giant long before her. In the back of the group, a red haired archer drew first blood with an excellent shot to the giant's torso. Mehra drew closer, admiring the warriors' skill in safely getting rid of the giant.

The fight was over by the time she got there.

“Well, that went well,” the archer smirked. She looked up and leveled Mehra with a glare. “No thanks to you, that is.”

Mehra took it in stride. Apparently, she committed a cultural sin.

“Where I come from,” she said, “it is rude to interrupt the fulfillment of a contract.”

“Sounds unfriendly,” the woman deadpanned.

“Morrowind was sometimes,” Mehra admitted. “You had people who hated anyone who wasn't native – including transplant Dunmer – and then there were people who would practically give you the shirt off of their back. Not much in between.”

“Maybe Morrowind and Skyrim have more in common, then,” the archer chuckled. “Name's Aela. This is Farkas and Ria. We are part of the Companions in Whiterun. If you're tough enough, maybe you can join us.”

Mehra nodded at the other Companions – a Nord male and an Imperial woman. The invitation was interesting, at least.

“We don't care what you look like,” Farkas said. “So long as you're tough. Got a dark elf that joined us; Athis. He's a tough son of a bitch.”

Aela turned to fix Farkas with a glare. “Dunmer, blockhead.”

“Yes. Dunmer.”

Mehra chuckled at the Nord's expense as he rolled his eyes at Aela.

“So, you want in, but the city is on lockdown on account of dragons flying around,” he said.

And she couldn't blame them for keeping the city shut.

“I've got some news on that,” Mehra mumbled. “I don't know what I can share. I've got to get in and talk to the Jarl; it's urgent.”

Aela nodded and motioned for her to follow them up to Whiterun. Together, the group traveled in silence as the sun shrank lower on the horizon and the city grew nearer.

By the time they reached Whiterun's massive wooden gate, the sky was orange. As the guards in front let the Companions in, Aela called over her shoulder.

“Well, we've got a free bed for you if our Harbinger thinks you're tough enough. You should think of joining us.”

Mehra gave her a nod. She'd think about it; doing some basic errands could give her enough coin to get going somewhere. It seemed vain and pointless to earn money, but a free roof over her head would do nicely. That was, if she could get into the city.

Sure enough, the guards stopped her; she looked new, and though there were many Morrowind refugees that settled down in Skyrim, she was unique enough that she'd be remembered.

“Helgen was attacked by a dragon,” Mehra said. “I must speak with the Jarl.”

“Helgen isn't in our hold,” one of the guards replied. “Still, this is important news.”

“Riverwood's defenseless,” another remarked. “Poor sods don't even have a proper wall.”

“Aye, that they don't.”

The guards glanced between each other and nodded.

“We'll let you in,” one said. “You should go straight to the Jarl in Dragonsreach.”

Mehra nodded and stepped in through the gate. It looked like everything was closing down for the night; people milled about the streets with satchels of various purchases, children ran home at the sound of their parents' dinner bells ringing, and shopkeepers brought their outdoor wares inside for the evening. She walked the stone streets, nodding at the friendly people who greeted her with a smile. The ancient wooden city teemed with life.

A dragon attacking this place would be a disaster.

Mehra doubled the speed of her steps as she followed the main road toward Dragonsreach. She hoped that the Jarl of such a large and prosperous hold would care more than the Jarl of Falkreath.

An elderly woman tottered down the street to her right. In the next second, the woman tripped and fell to the ground, moaning in pain. Mehra rushed over to her while the shopkeeps stopped what they were doing and headed over as well.

“Are you hurt?” Mehra asked.

The woman sat up, hissed in pain, and nodded. Mehra bit her lip and held her hands out. It had been a very long time since she used a healing spell, but she would do her best.

A young shopkeep reached her first. The worried woman knelt down next to her. “Lilith, are you hurt?”

The old woman nodded. “This young lady will take care of me. Thank you, Ysolda. I'll be fine, everyone.” The shopkeeps looked skeptical, but they returned to their business.

Mehra pursed her lips in concentration; she felt an injury, but couldn't figure out where it was. Shaking her head, she cast her healing spell. Mehra felt the injury knit itself back together slowly. By the time she was done, sweat ran down her face. She couldn't remember having so much difficulty casting a simple spell. Panting, Mehra helped the old woman to her feet.

“Divines smile upon you,” Lilith smiled.

“And you as well,” Mehra replied.

She turned to leave, but the woman grabbed her arm.

“Your destiny is half-fulfilled,” she said. “Be aware; the curse of madness cannot be broken. You will find friends in unexpected places who will relight the fire in your heart. Remember that the Mother of the Rose is faithful to the just.”

“Oh,” Mehra murmured. “Thank you.” A prophecy? Vision, perhaps?

The woman closed her eyes.

“I see a great mushroom tower rising up out of the ash,” she continued. “You will –”

She opened her eyes and shook her head in shock, as if scandalized.

“You will be quite lucky,” the woman concluded.

Mehra gave her a sad smile. “I had the luck of the Emperor once,” she said. “Now, my burden is too heavy.”

“Remember that the strong are burdened so as to protect the weak from being crushed.”

Mehra closed her eyes and nodded. That had been her original purpose, before she went and mucked everything up.

“Run along now,” Lilith said. “You've got important business.”

With that, Mehra left the seer behind, puzzling over her vision. The only ominous part seemed to be some 'curse of madness'. It felt pathetic, however, that the most puzzling part was that of friendship. Her path was a lonely one. Then again, the mushroom tower in the ash bit may have been from Mehra's past; visions could be a jumbled mix of past, present, and future. Maybe it was representational.

She needed facts, not signs.

Mehra thought on these things as the main road took her past houses increasing in wealth until she reached a large courtyard containing the houses of nobility and a temple. In the middle of the courtyard, a withered old tree stood, surprisingly barren in the beginning spring weather. It must have died, or was on its way to dying. She didn't know why, but she found herself pitying the ancient tree; it was the centerpiece of the square, and it had nothing left in it. Taking one last glance at the tree, Mehra crossed the courtyard and made her way up the steps to Dragonsreach, stopping at the front door.

A guard halted her and told her to state her business.

“I have news on Helgen and the dragons.”

Without a word, he opened the door to the fortress. Mehra stepped in, making her way through the carpeted foyer and up a set of stairs to reach the great hall. At the center was a throne, and on it, a middle-aged Nord in expensive clothing. He argued with an Imperial who stood off to the side.

Mehra would have listened in, were it not for the warrior Dunmer woman approaching her with her hand on the hilt of her sword.

“What is the meaning of this interruption? The Jarl is not receiving any visitors.”

“Helgen was attacked by a dragon,” Mehra replied. “I was there.”

The woman frowned and let go of her sword.

“Explains why the guards let you in. The Jarl will want to see you immediately.”

Mehra followed her toward the Jarl's throne, listening as she – likely the Jarl's personal guard – explained Mehra's presence. The Jarl nodded and silenced the Imperial man with a gesture of his hand.

“So, you saw this dragon with your own eyes?”

Mehra nodded. “Yes, I did.”

“Now,” he replied, “what I need to know is what happened, and what you saw in Helgen.”

Suddenly weary, Mehra closed her eyes.

“Dragon torched the place. Barely any survivors. Not sure if there's a serviceable building remaining. They were about to execute Ulfric Stormcloak when it attacked.”

“I should have figured Ulfric would be mixed up in this,” the Jarl murmured. Frowning, he turned to his Imperial adviser. “Well, Proventius? Should we trust in the strength of our walls now?”

The Dunmer at the Jarl's side stepped forward.

“Jarl Balgruuf. We should send troops to Riverwood at once. If the dragon is lurking in the mountains, the town would be defenseless.”

The Imperial adviser shook his head.

“The Jarl of Falkreath will take that as a provocation!” Proventius argued. “He will think that we have joined Ulfric. We should not –”

“Enough!” Balgruuf barked. “Riverwood is defenseless, and Falkreath knows better. Irileth, send a detachment of troops to Riverwood first thing in the morning.”

“Yes, my Jarl. I shall accompany them as well.”

“That was the goal of my visit, in truth,” Mehra admitted. “Riverwood sent me to request aid. They are good people.”

“You from there?” Proventius asked.

Mehra shook her head. “No. I don't really know where I'm from.” To the side, she heard Irileth mumble about 'too many orphans'. It had been this way for centuries.

Jarl Balgruuf gave her a smile. “Regardless, your caring to come to me speaks highly of you. You have our thanks.” He looked at her for a moment, as if sizing her up.

“If you don't mind, we would like your help on something,” he said. “My court wizard has been working on something that deals with these dragons and rumors of dragons. Let me take you to him.”

The Jarl stood and led her to a side room. A man in mage's robes stood at a table, murmuring to himself as he read his notes. There were papers all over the desk, some ancient looking. Behind him was a worn, stained alchemists' stand and an enchanter. It looked like a cozy little office, though Mehra supposed it was a shame that there was no door to close it off from the main room. It was much easier to work on projects in quiet and solitude.

The Jarl regarded his wizard with a smile and cleared his throat.

“Farengar, I think I found someone to help you with your dragon project.”

A project? On dragons themselves? Or was the word 'dragon' merely a descriptor?

“Oh, yes?”

“I'll leave you to it,” the Jarl said. He gave Mehra a nod and turned to leave. Farengar sized her up with a sigh.

“You may be of help,” he said. “And by help, what I really mean is go into very dangerous ruins in search of an ancient artifact that may or may not actually be there.”

Mehra shrugged. “Sounds like typical research. Where is it?”

Farengar let out a dry laugh.

“Straight to the point, eh? No concern for details. You'd rather leave those to your betters. Alright.”

Mehra narrowed her eyes as he told her where it may be, and what it theoretically was. Leave details to her betters? Well, she supposed that he found it tiring to deal with constant suspicion from people who didn't know any better about wizards.

“I'll get it, no problem,” Mehra frowned. “But, in the future, you may want to brush up on your destruction skills and do your own field research.”

“It's much better to send a grunt.”

Mehra shrugged and turned on her heel. She'd let him think as he wished; being upset wasn't worth it.

On her way out of the keep, she caught sight of Irileth. Mehra approached the Jarl's guardian, who immediately noticed her and waited.

“May I accompany you out of the city tomorrow morning?” Mehra asked. “I've been sent on an errand for Farengar, and Bleak Falls Barrow is right next to Riverwood. ”

“You may. We will leave at sunrise, sharp. Come out by the front gate.”

Mehra gave her a nod and said a quick goodnight, sensing that Irileth wasn't one for pleasantries. She exited Dragonsreach, stopped outside the door, and peered out at the dark city.

In her heart, Mehra knew if she returned to her people, they wouldn't recognize her. Anywhere she went, she would be a stranger.

“Now what?” she murmured. It was dark, and she'd been traveling nonstop all day without food. In her possession: one apple and about ten gold. So, her choice was a meal, or a place to sleep. She could go to the temple if she had to, but the thought wasn't appealing.

One of the guards shifted behind her.

“Bannered Mare's an inn in the city,” he interjected.

"Not enough gold.”

“Go to the Companions,” he said. “It's that building down there whose roof is an ancient boat. They've got honest work, if they let you in.”

Mehra bit her lip and looked down at the city. There, near the temple and wealthy houses, was a large, dark building. It was unmistakably the right place. She supposed she could give it a try; Aela gave her an invitation of a sort.

“I'll try it.”

“Good,” the guard said. “They're a good lot.”

With that, Mehra descended from Dragonsreach and made her way across the courtyard to the Companions. She stood in front of the door and sighed. Her feet ached. With the remaining resolve she had, Mehra opened the large door and stepped in to the Companions' odd building.

The sight that greeted her was a large, ancient dining hall. A group of fighters stood around, drinking and cheering at the sight of two of their own having a brawl. A tall, strong blonde woman squared off against a shirtless, painted Dunmer. They dodged and exchanged punches, much to the delight of their fellows.

Apparently, this was one of those kinds of places. Mehra stifled her distaste and looked around for Aela.

The Archer stood near the back of the group. As Mehra approached, Aela saw her out of the corner of her eye and turned around with a broad grin. Mehra gave her a smile and stepped forward with more confidence.

The fighting Dunmer noticed Mehra and made the mistake of stopping to stare. The huge, Nordic woman he fought got him square in the gut with a heavy punch. He went down with a groan.

Aela snorted and turned to Mehra. “Men. Ysgramor himself wouldn't have the patience to deal with this rabble around here.”

Mehra bit her lip and chuckled. Apparently, she still had it. Either that, or she looked like she didn't belong.

The woman who won the fight turned around to glare at Mehra. “Who's the interferer?”

“Potential new blood.”

A few of the Companions looked at Mehra in disdain. Even the Dunmer that stopped to look at her in the middle of the fight looked skeptical. To his credit, Farkas shrugged.

“We'll have to see what Kodlak says,” he said.

Aela motioned Mehra to follow with a jerk of her head. They made their way through the great hall, down the stairs at the side, and down a hallway in the basement to a room on the end. Mehra heard a pair of voices in there, but couldn't see past Aela.

“This one wants to join,” she said, then turned around and left without a word.

Mehra stood in the doorway, peering in at the Companions inside. There was a young man – he looked similar to Farkas – and an old, grizzled fighter. The older man sized her up for a moment and nodded. It was as if he knew that she was somewhat different than the normal recruit.

“And why would you like to join the Companions? What brings you here to Jorrvaskr?” he asked.

“I'd like to earn some money the honest way,” she answered, in the most honest terms she could.

The young Nord's jaw dropped in shock. “You cannot be considering her!”

But the old man just smiled. “We can learn a lot from everyone, Vilkas. Not all warriors are bulging with muscle.”

Vilkas cringed at the thought and refused to look at her. Shaking his head, Kodlak gave Mehra a nod.

“You have a certain strength of heart,” he said. “Go out to the courtyard; Vilkas will test your skills.”

Vilkas didn't hide his dissatisfaction as he stood and led her out though the hall and back up the stairs. The rest of the Companions sat around, laughing amongst themselves until they noticed her trailing Vilkas. Farkas looked up expectantly.

“Well,” Vilkas announced, “if anyone wants to see me beat the hell out of this tiny girl to test her skills, you're welcome to watch.”

Everyone stood up and followed. Mehra's stomach grumbled loudly, reminding her that at the end of this test, there was food waiting. She followed Vilkas out the other side of Jorrvaskr, into a training courtyard.

Flames from nearby braziers lit the courtyard, illuminating targets and practice dummies. Vilkas told her to find a weapon so they could get the test over with. He selected a wooden practice longsword and waited for her in the center of the sparring area. Feeling that her speed could come in handy, Mehra grabbed a pair of wooden shortswords.

As she made her way over to Vilkas, she overheard pieces of the Companions' whispers: “going to be awful”, “so scrawny”, “give her a chance”. Mehra smiled sadly; it was like being an outlander back in Morrowind, in a way.

“Why are you smiling, fresh blood?” Vilkas snorted.

“I'm reminded of home,” she said.

Farkas laughed off to the side. “She's tougher than she looks. She survived a dragon attack yesterday, brother.”

Hm. So they were brothers. While the Companions grew silent, Vilkas didn't react to this new information. Instead, he signaled that he was ready.

They charged each other, delivering a flurry of blows and blocks. Mehra whirled around to dodge a swipe from his sword and darted in to attempt to get to his flank. Vilkas predicted this move and followed up with a turn and a swing at her side. Blocking again, Mehra swept her leg under his in an attempt to trip him.

Vilkas stumbled and righted himself just in time to block another strike. He was good – really good – and much faster than Mehra predicted. She raised her swords to strike again, but Vilkas stopped her.

“That's good enough,” he said. “You're not completely incompetent.”

Mehra shrugged and went to hang the swords up, listening to the cheering of the Companions. It turned out that she had some of their respect from her display of swordsmanship. Still, she didn't expect any of them to treat her nicely or go easier on her. That wasn't how a guild worked, and even if they weren't an official guild or house, they were still an exclusive club.

As she made her way back to the hall, Farkas gave her a nod.

“Well, whelp,” he said, “you look like you can handle yourself well. Sit down for some food and I'll give you some work.”

Mehra followed him back inside and sat down at the table. An elderly woman bustled by, laying a bowl of beef and cabbage stew in front of her. Mehra thanked her, and she gave a quick nod before leaving to attend to other duties.

Mehra dug in to the soup, eating as fast as she could. Farkas sat down across from her, and it wasn't until Mehra reached the middle of the bowl that she took a break. She was suddenly stuffed.

“I hope you're planning to eat more than that,” Farkas grumbled. “Your arms look like twigs. And you can't tell me that stew isn't damned delicious because I know it is.”

Mehra supposed it was. She'd finish it up; she knew she ought to.

“I've got a job for you, but first, I want to know: Can you throw a punch?”

“I think so,” she said. “I'm better with martial combat than brawling.”

Farkas considered this for a moment then nodded.

“Well then,” he said, “We've got someone that needs to be shut up. Name's Sinmir and he's been talking trash about the Whiterun guards. I need you go to out there and scare this milk-drinker into submission, got it? You'll find him in the Bannered Mare.”

Mehra picked at a chunk of beef in the stew. “Am I permitted to dislocate fingers?”

Farkas swore and rested his chin in his hands.

“I mean, if you can do it, then do it,” he said. “No permanent damage; no killing. Tell him the Companions send their regards.”

Mehra nodded. Apparently, this was her 'honest work'.

She forced herself into eating the rest of the stew, then poured a small glass of wine. Mehra wasn't used to so much food, nor the richness of said food. She was almost certain that she'd have a stomachache later on.

“I'm meeting Irileth at the gate at dawn tomorrow to escort soldiers to Riverwood,” Mehra nodded. “I've got an errand for the Jarl through Farengar but I will do this on my way. This job you've sent me on is the first offer I've had of coin and I intend to take care of it.”

Farkas nodded; this sounded fair to him. As he pointed out each member of the Companions present, Mehra nursed her glass of wine. He then told her about the others downstairs and described them briefly. She supposed that the one to watch out for was Njada Stonearm, who didn't like her interrupting her fight earlier.

“So, where'ya from, new blood?” Farkas asked.

“I don't really know,” Mehra said. “I just wander, really.”

She had a really nice tower, once. Just the tower, though; the only way the location could have been worse was if the tower had been grown within the Ghostfence. Mehra figured it and everything in it was buried by lava when Red Mountain erupted.

“You'll love exploring Skyrim,” Farkas said, “it is beautiful.”

Mehra nodded. She liked what she saw, so far. Finishing off her wine, Mehra stood from the table.

“I've got to sack out,” she said. “I walked from Falkreath to Riverwood, then Riverwood to here today.”

“Hell, that's a long way.” Farkas stood as well and ushered her toward the stairs. “You were good with the swords against my brother, but you fought like you were tired. Now I know why.”

They walked down the stairs and Farkas spoke over the side of his shoulder. “Didn't complain though. That's good; we don't like complainers. We're tough on the new ones but if you do your job and act respectful, you'll be just fine.”

“I'll do my best.”

“That's all we ask for.” Farkas stopped in front of one of the bedrooms and ushered her in. “This is where you sleep. Find a bed and pass out.”

Mehra thanked him and looked at the room's occupants: Ria, Athis, Torvar, and Njada.

“New blood!” Torvar greeted. “You were decent with those swords out there. A bit sloppy at times, but still good. What's your name?”

“Mehra.”

“You look tired, kid,” Athis said. He sat on his bed, nursing his side.

Mehra smiled. “I am. I did a lot of walking today.”

“If a bit of walking wears you out, you'll never last,” Njada scowled.

Mehra didn't have suitable a reply for her and said nothing. On a nearby table, there was a washing basin. Grabbing a towel, Mehra washed her face and hands. She peered into the grimy, cracked mirror on the table, amazed at the youthful face she saw. Mehra felt ages older – as if she'd lived more than her two-hundred odd years – and felt like the face didn't fit. So, this was what others saw. She grabbed the tangle of black hair on her head and let it out of its tie, watching as it tumbled to her waist. Mehra did her best to comb the tangles out with her fingers, but gave up eventually.

“She's vain, too,” Njada grumbled. “Wonderful. Why is this child here?”

Mehra rolled her eyes. “I look like Dagoth Ur.”

Athis laughed. “Really?” He looked her up and down, making it very obvious what he thought of her.

“What, you think he sat up there and had the ash vampires cut his hair?”

Hell, he hadn't worn any clothes. When Mehra finally got to him, he was mad and naked, save his golden mask. Athis sat on the edge of his bed, likely pondering a hairy Dagoth Ur.

“He probably looked like the insane, unholy horror that he was,” Mehra said. “Though, probably well-spoken.”

Athis nodded. “To imagine that the Ashlanders believed in the Nerevarine while the Temple didn't, though I can see why. Well, we're all Ashlanders now, friend.”

Mehra swallowed thickly. They certainly were.

She attempted to make small talk with the others, but eventually gave up; between Njada's snide comments and her disquiet, Mehra didn't have the heart.

Giving in to her fatigue, Mehra said her goodnights, found a bed, and passed out.

 


	3. Chapter 3

_Fear not, for I am watchful. You have been chosen. -Azura_

 

 

* * *

 

 

4 E 0. Cyrodiil.

 

He was never serious, even when faced with the prospect of the Empire's growing instability. Erich did everything with a smile and a wink, and it served him well. Despite being the Champion of Cyrodiil, his carefree, do-nothing demeanor made him slip beneath the notice of many.

After the Oblivion Crisis, the Empire didn't need Erich Heartfire; they needed an emperor. He couldn't provide for the Empire any longer.

“Tell me how it started,” she asked him, “the true story.”

Erich had a twinkle in his eye, the one that made it look as if he had a secret to tell. Mehra scooted closer to him and he wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

“I was black-out drunk,” he recalled, “and woke up in a cell. Some man in official armor was telling me to back away toward the window, and I was too hung-over to ask what was going on.”

His hand began to trace light patterns on her arm, and Mehra had to suppress a shiver. This man's touch had a spell unlike any she'd ever encountered.

“Then the Emperor himself came in,” Erich continued, “and said, 'I've seen you. Then this must be the day. Gods give me strength'.” His impression of the late Uriel Septim was much more reverent than his other impressions.

“And I just said, 'I am so hung over,'” he recounted, “and I fell backward against the wall. That was how it all started; the Emperor – gods rest him – placed the fate of his Empire in the hands of a hung over conman.”

Erich's mouth wandered over to her neck, leaving a trail of kisses up to her ear. He was trying again, and Mehra briefly considered letting him continue. The thought was tempting, but she didn't quite think he'd earned it, yet.

“Fighting Mythic Dawn while dry-heaving was my first test,” he whispered, completely shattering the moment.

Erich kissed her again and held her hand, his thumb tracing over her Moon-and-Star. The callous of his thumb caught on one of the edges of the star, and he pulled back to look down at it.

“This ring,” he murmured, “if I wear it, will I die?”

Mehra swallowed and stared at the sheets. Since the emergence of the Nerevarine, it had become fashionable to create rings that resembled Nerevar's Moon and Star. He probably thought she was some silly girl, wearing a ring that did nothing. It took one glance into his eyes to conclude that he was patronizing her.

“Yes,” she quipped, “and if you don't believe me, you can try. And soon, you will feel nothing.”

Erich smiled at her, his grin too broad, and the gleam in his eyes near predatory. He leaned in to her, and she backed away. This man was unpredictable, sometimes terrifying.

“You devious little runaway,” he chuckled, becoming a silly oaf once more.

Mehra swallowed; she outed herself.

“I swear not to tell,” Erich added, “and besides; I think of running away sometimes myself.”

Months later, when rumors spread that he disappeared through a door that opened in the Niben, Mehra would realize that Erich Heartfire had been serious.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

4E 201. Whiterun.

 

 

“Hey, new girl! It's dawn. Don't you have to be up?”

Mehra's eyes shot open and she sat up in bed. Where was she?

“I was surprised when they let a me – a Dunmer – in, but it looks like they'll let anyone join the Companions now.”

She looked around the room and let out a sigh of relief; she wasn't in an Akaviri prison anymore. Her eyes met Njada's, and the Nord snorted.

“Pathetic.”

Mehra swung her legs over the side of the bed. She hopped in to her boots, yanked on her leather armor, and fastened her sword. As she attempted to tie her hair up in something, she gave Njada a glare.

“I apologize for being underweight and malnourished.” Mehra didn't give her time to reply and left the room, jogging down the hall and bounding up the stairs. Kodlak sat with the Circle at the table, discussing something in a hushed voice. They all turned at once to look at Mehra.

“I'm going out,” she announced, unnerved by the intensity of their stares.

Farkas laughed and tossed a pair of apples toward her. “Go hurt something!”

Mehra grinned and caught them, stuffing one into her pack and biting into the other. She jogged out the door and looked at the brightening sky. She was supposed to meet Irileth at sunrise, and the sun was almost up.

Swearing, Mehra ran down toward the front gate, winding her way through the streets until she saw a group of guards lining up. Good; she wasn't late. Mehra decided to act casual, slowed to a walk, and resumed eating her apple. She caught sight of Irileth walking down the line of guards. By the time she got there, Irileth was done.

Mehra gave her a nod. “I'm sorry if I kept you waiting, I –”

“We wouldn't have waited,” Irileth said.

Mehra nodded and walked next to her as they departed Whiterun. She could appreciate that.

“Don't act like I didn't see you running down here,” Irileth frowned.

“Guilty as charged,” Mehra sighed. “No excuses.”

“Good. Most your age would come up with an excuse.”

Most people Mehra's age were either in their twilight years, or wizards, but she wasn't about to correct Irileth. There was no point in doing it, and it would raise a lot of questions.

They continued on in silence for a while, until Mehra became curious. “How did you come to be a housecarl?”

“The Jarl and I were shield companions when we were younger. We fought together. It made sense then that I remained by his side. Anyone attempting to get to him will have to go through me.”

“So, it sounds like he's had some assassination attempts,” Mehra mused.

Irileth's smirk grew wicked. “Many would-be assassins have met their doom at the tip of my blade.”

Mehra laughed. “I wonder what it is that makes people want to assassinate the normal, good ones? Do they just get jealous?”

“Your guess is good as mine. Though the war has caused some trouble. Jarl Balgruuf has to be careful with how he presents himself. The older he becomes, however, the more vigilant I must be.”

Balgruuf would be long dead by the time Irileth could be considered elderly. Mehra understood all too well the pain of staying young while the world aged around her. She turned to the housecarl with a sad smile. “It's incredible how quickly they age, isn't it?”

“Indeed.”

The soldiers fidgeted in front of them at this uncomfortable thought. Irileth's eyes slid toward them. “I do not think any less of the races of men for aging quickly. They burn fast, but they burn brightly.”

“That they do. Their influence was probably one of the reasons why Hlaalu became so successful around the turn of the Era.”

Irileth shrugged. “Also part of why Hlaalu was disgraced.”

Mehra nodded; it would take her a long time to get used to that thought. House rivalries added a bit of spice to Morrowind's life.

“And now,” Mehra sighed, “dragons are flying around torching places. How many are there? Who is next? And, why? They'll have to be stopped somehow. I doubt that Helgen will be the last.”

Irileth sighed and looked at the mountain ahead. “The people of Tamriel could use the hope of Nerevar at a time like this.”

Mehra looked down at the ground. Even though she had been a symbol of hope, she was in it for herself the entire time, and she wondered why Azura chose such a terrible person to be her champion.

“Maybe Skyrim has a similar prophecy,” Mehra offered. “Maybe there is a hero waiting to save everyone.” She was too old and had been rotting too long in prison to make much of a difference. If said hero showed up, she'd offer moral support. Mehra would also offer some advice: Choose to do good, always.

“We can only rely on ourselves.”

After a moment, Mehra sighed. They couldn't count on a prophecy to save them, not when the Empire abandoned Morrowind, not when Baau Dar crashed into Vivec, not when Red Mountain erupted, and not when the Argonians invaded and slaughtered the Dunmer people.

“You are right,” she admitted. “The people can't wait around for a hero to save them.”

And there was the naked truth of it all. Regardless of her actions, a terrible fate still befell the Dunmer. Whether it was judgment for their past sins, or just callous allowances from distant, uninvolved Gods, Mehra couldn't say.

The gravity of the situation hit her as she walked with Irileth back up the mountain road to Riverwood. Dragons hadn't been seen on Tamriel for thousands of years. Why were they back?

Mehra wished that she had taken the time to study more ancient history during her time in House Telvanni instead of lusting after power. Divayth Fyr would have given her many books on various topics. And, she suspected that it would have delighted Aryon. Even grouchy old Neloth would have thrown a book or two her way. Were any of them alive? The house suffered such terrible damages during the Red Year and Argonian Invasion that Mehra didn't know how to begin looking up the secretive wizards.

Mehra shook her head; she had a job to do, and that was to look for this dragon stone. She wasn't a hero anymore and hadn't been in centuries.

She walked with the Whiterun guards until they approached the old bridge in front of the town. Just before the bridge was a path so worn that its stones were more gravel than anything else. Mehra turned to Irileth.

“I suppose the barrow's up here.”

The housecarl nodded. “I shall see you on your return. Hopefully your expedition turns up something.”

“I hope so as well.”

With that, Irileth ordered the guards on to Whiterun, leaving Mehra behind on the old pathway. Mehra picked her way up the path and peered up at the snowy mountain. She hadn't had a good crypt raid in a long time.

The path wound up and up, until it turned onto a set of stairs. Large, dark stones and arches lined the stone landing of the barrow. Thankfully, the dragon hadn't made the decision to roost up here, and Mehra couldn't blame it; the mountaintop was freezing. Shivering, Mehra trudged her way through the snow and toward the barrow's heavy doors.

Well, this was it. She had a feeling that this wasn't going to be easy, but wouldn't go back on her word. Mehra opened the door and stepped in, attempting to cast a weak light spell to guide her through the ancient crypt. After a few tries, an orb of light bloomed at her fingertips while Mehra panted from the effort. She desperately needed practice.

Hours later, Mehra emerged from Bleak Falls Barrow plus one golden claw and a few gems, as well as the occasional tickle of a spider web that she knew was stuck somewhere to her hair that she just couldn't find. The barrow had hordes of undead and traps, but the part of her that loved to explore back in the Third Era knew where most of them would be. Against her credit however, the puzzles for unlocking the treasure rooms weren't difficult.

Also, she had an incredibly heavy stone tablet strapped to her back. Mehra desperately hoped that this was what Farengar was looking for, just so the pain of carrying it would be justified.

As Mehra made her way back down the mountain, she thought back to the strange wall in the room that contained the dragon stone. She couldn't get that word on the wall out of her head. It meant something about a force of some sort, something kind of like a violent shove. But for the life of her, she didn't know how to pronounce it.

And a strong part of her knew that she ought to know. It wasn't any of Nerevar's knowledge; maybe, it was something she knew from her studies in house Telvanni. But, Mehra figured she'd remember such a strange word.

The sky was golden by the time she found herself back down by the main road. Mehra turned and crossed the bridge toward Riverwood; there was no way she'd make it back to Whiterun in decent time. She supposed she could try Alvor's place, but she felt strange asking permission to stay somewhere where she clearly wasn't wanted – at least by part of the family.

Mehra entered the small town and noticed the Whiterun guards patrolling the streets. One of them gave her a nod and a smile. Her experience with the people of the Whiterun hold had been leagues better than Falkreath. Maybe, it was due to the higher concentration of people. They certainly seemed to have more mer-folk within the hold.

She made her way through town, stopping when she saw Sigrid working in her garden. The woman looked up from her work and gave her a measured look.

“I see that you brought guards from Whiterun,” she said.

“I follow through with my promises.”

Sigrid leaned on her rake and bit her lip. Sighing, she wiped wisps of golden hair away from her brow with her forearm. “Look, I don't hate you. Truly.”

Mehra nodded and waited for her to continue.

“Dorthe is constantly out at the forge,” she admitted. “All that smithing – it ain't ladylike. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to stay at the inn tonight. I'll pay your way if you need it. I just want my daughter to be a proper lady.”

Then, a quiet, pained whisper: “I want her to stay far away from danger. The dragons are bad enough.”

Mehra shifted the heavy stone on her back and looked at the ground. The poor woman was scared witless – rightly so – about her daughter's uncertain future. The fate of Tamriel was more uncertain than it had been in Mehra's time on Vvardenfell.

“I respect that. I've got money for the room. Thank you for the offer.”  
  
“Thank you,” Sigrid said.

With that, Mehra made her way toward the nearby inn. She couldn't blame Sigrid; adventuring was dangerous. There were at least ten non-draugr corpses in the crypt she raided. She didn't agree with keeping the child cooped up under the guise of making sure she acted a 'lady', but Mehra wouldn't tell Sigrid how to raise her child. And she certainly wouldn't judge her for it.

Her bitterness toward others –including the Gods– had dried up long ago. Whereas at one time, Mehra would have taken insult by Sigrid's opinion, she didn't have the heart to feel anything apart from pity for the woman's worry.

Mehra walked up to the front of the Sleeping Giant Inn, opened the door, and entered. The smell of smoke and meat hit her, making her mouth water. She came by at the right time.

The inn was small but tidy. A fire lay in the center of the room, coals burning merrily inside a circle of stones. Around the sides were tables and benches, some still damp from an evening cleaning.

Mehra crossed the floor toward a man behind the bar. As she approached, he sighed.

“Inn's closed, traveler,” he said. “The bar's still open, though. Feel free to sit and put your head down on the table for as long as you'd like, though. I won't bother you.”

“Why is it closed?”

“Owner's out. She owns the place and does what she wants.”

Mehra exhaled in frustration and shifted the weight of her bag's straps to another area of her shoulder.

“Dinner's ready, though,” the man said. “Want some food?”

Mehra nodded and set her bag down at the closest table. Her feet throbbed inside her boots, making Mehra think that maybe she ought to fall asleep at the table. She didn't realize that she'd nearly fallen asleep until the man returned with a plate of food.

“I wish I could give you a room,” he said. “I'll give you this food for free, though. Don't tell anyone. Name's Orgnar. Give me a shout if you need ale or something.”

Mehra thanked him and looked down at the meal. It looked like Orgnar picked out pieces of meat and vegetables from the stew and gave her very little broth. She knew she was thin, but Mehra didn't feel like she needed special treatment.

Her stomach still wasn't used to too much more than bread and water, and sometimes an occasional treat to make sure she didn't die of malnutrition. The food looked daunting, but Mehra would do her best. After a long day traipsing through ruins, she knew that she had to eat a lot to keep up her energy.

Mehra scooped up a carrot – non intimidating – and put it in her mouth. The sweet and tangy flavor was something else. She hadn't had a flavor like it in nearly two hundred years. Incredible.

She dabbed at her misting eyes. Was she seriously getting emotional over a carrot?

Refusing to give in to the moment, Mehra continued to eat, savoring every flavor. Last night's beef and cabbage stew, though delicious, couldn't compare to this. There were carrots, cabbage, potatoes, leeks, beans, and beef.

“Got some bread if you want that too,” Orgnar called.

Bread? Oh, gods no.

“This is delicious as-is, but thank you.”

The door to the inn opened and closed, but Mehra paid it no mind. It wasn't until she heard footsteps approaching that Mehra bothered to look up from her meal. The newcomer was a tanned woman with dark, worried eyes. Her manner of dress seemed common, much like others in Riverwood.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but have you been on the road out of town recently?”

Mehra swallowed her bite of food and nodded.

“A bandit broke in to my store,” the woman continued. “He ran off toward the barrow with our golden claw. I was wondering if you'd know anything about it. Maybe you saw him out on the road.”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Mehra replied. She put her spoon down and opened her pack to find the claw. She figured that something so nice had to have been stolen, and the would-be bandit's journal hinted so much.

Mehra took the claw from her bag, and the woman gasped.

“You found it!”

“Sure did,” Mehra replied. “I suspected that it was stolen.” She handed it over to the woman.

“What's your name?” she asked. “My name is Camilla. My brother Lucan and I run the Riverwood Trader store.”

“Name's Mehra.”

Camilla nodded. “Let me go get my brother. He'll want to thank you in person.” She left, taking the claw with her.

Mehra returned to her meal. She made decent progress before the inn's door opened again. With weary feet, Mehra stood and greeted the shopkeepers.

“Thank you so much for giving the claw back,” Lucan said. “My sister says that you happened upon it. Thank you for your honesty.”

Camilla handed a bag of gold to Mehra and smiled. “This is double the value of the claw. We just wanted to have it back. It's a good luck charm of sorts.”

“Well, thank you for that,” Mehra said.

“It's the right thing to do,” Lucan said. “We'll let you return to your dinner. If you ever need supplies while you're in town, come and see us. We'll give you a friends discount.”

"I appreciate that,” she replied. “And I appreciate this as well.” Mehra motioned to the bag of money. She was scraping the bottom of the barrel as far as money was concerned, even after her crypt raid.

Camilla shrugged. “Not a problem. We hope to see you around.”

With that, they left and Mehra returned to her dinner. It took a lot of effort to finish, but finally, she emptied the bowl, just as the sun disappeared over the horizon and the evening patrons began to wander in. Mehra pushed the empty bowl away with a heavy sigh. She'd just put her head down for a few minutes and have a nap. Maybe, she could make it to Whiterun after that, since there was nowhere for her to sleep.

Her head nodded down for a quick nap.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

4E 201. Winterhold.

 

At least there had been a letter of warning.

Savos Aren grimaced as he re-read the letter sent to him from the Thalmor officials at the Skyrim Embassy. The Thalmor wanted to send a representative to them in order to improve relations. They didn't bother to give the College a choice, either; the letter declared that the representative would arrive within two days.

Today was the day the representative would arrive. They barely had any time to prepare, and he supposed that the Thalmor meant for this to happen. Typically, Mirabelle dealt with these sorts of things. Savos didn't have time for the day-to-day activities of the College and besides, Mirabelle was perfectly organized. This, however, called for his attention.

As Arch-Mage, Savos was there to impress upon the young apprentices that they ought to respect magic and not be greedy; it was one of the reasons that he had Tolfdir as a main lecturer. Tolfdir believed the same as he did, and never took unnecessary risks. Maybe, these teachings would prevent the students from doing the reckless things he did when he was an apprentice.

The door to his quarters opened and closed. The sound of light footsteps and swishing robes drew closer until they stopped at his desk. He didn't have to look up to know it was Mirabelle; the scent of ashes and snowberries always clung to her.

“Master Savos,” she said. “The Thalmor representative is here.”

Savos sighed, folded the letter up, and put it it away. Standing up, he tucked his chair in under his desk.

“So, what is this representative like?”

He followed as Mirabelle gave him a brief impression of the man. Ancano was his name, and he seemed to be a typical Thalmor type. On their way out, they passed one of the apprentices, whom Mirabelle took aside.

“Brelyna,” she said. “The Thalmor representative is here. Do you remember what I told you?”

The young Dunmer nodded sadly. “I will be careful, Master.”

“You know none of us have anything against House Telvanni,” Mirabelle murmured. “Keep it hushed around the Thalmor. I will be watching to make sure that you are safe.”

Brelyna looked crushed, but nodded in compliance.

“I will gauge the representative and advise you on this matter,” Savos said. “Our people have enough to deal with in Skyrim as is.”

 The apprentice thanked him and gave him a small bow, then returned to her studies. It was terrible that they had to tell the girl to hide her heritage, but her safety came first over her pride. Of course, the Thalmor typically didn't like anybody, but one couldn't be too careful; House Telvanni had enemies everywhere.

The young apprentice was gifted as her heritage dictated, though Savos suspected that the weight of expectations and pressure to perform must have been immense on her. But he believed Mirabelle when she said she'd protect the girl and he would as well if it became necessary.

He continued with Mirabelle to the front door and she grabbed his arm. Confused, Savos leaned down.

“Listen,” she whispered. “This guy is shady. This 'improve relations' thing has to be a ruse. They're looking for something.”

Savos nodded. “We will have to gather facts –”

She tugged insistently on his arm. “Savos! When I know things, I just know them. Please, believe me.”

“I'm listening, Mirabelle,” he replied. “I am always listening. You know I trust you.”

Her face softened and she smiled. He would be lost without her as an assistant.

“Let's see to our guest,” Savos said. With that, he steeled himself and opened the door.

The expected frigid blast of air sent a chill through his body. Shrugging it off, he trudged through the snow already lining the courtyard. An Altmeri man waited in the center as Faralda attempted to engage him in conversation, to no avail. Perhaps, the man was simply travel weary; it was well past dinner hour, and getting on toward the time where the students studied.

Behind them, Nirya struggled with a large bag, until J'zargo stepped forward and took it for her. Together, they made their way back into the College to drop the visitor's things off at his quarters.

Savos stepped up to the man and was surprised when the Thalmor offered his hand to shake. Taking the simple pleasantry for what it was, the Arch Mage shook his hand, noting that the other man firmly took the dominant position. It didn't bother him in the least; such displays were trite.

“I hope your travels weren't difficult,” Savos said.

“Cold, but there was no trouble.”

“This place is the coldest I've ever been,” Savos sighed. He motioned Ancano to follow him inside to the warmth of the College.

“It is spring right now,” he drawled. “Supposedly, at least.” Savos gestured to the snow falling outside.

Ancano nodded, but said nothing. He had the personality of a slaughterfish, apparently. With nothing to go off of, Savos led Ancano inside the College. They stepped into the great, open Hall of Elements, where a few students practiced their spells.

“We are independent of the Empire and Skyrim here,” Savos said. “We make every attempt to stay independent of politics.”

“Independent as Morrowind was in the Third Era?” Ancano drawled.

So, the man wasn't only socially inept; he was intentionally rude as well. Savos bit his tongue and continued to give Ancano a tour of the College. He could be rude all he liked, but if he did anything to endanger the College, Savos would personally throw him out. Savos led him through a wooden door to the apprentice quarters.

“We have personal quarters for you here in the Hall of Attainment,” he smiled. There, everyone would be able to keep an eye on Ancano, and Mirabelle and Tolfdir would be close by. Savos noted the Altmer's look of distaste as he took in his lodgings, namely, the conspicuous absence of a door, or even a curtain offering privacy.

It was much easier to make sure that it was difficult to hide dangerous experiments, and for that, he was grateful. They had enough trouble with Malyn and Nelcar – just the thought of what they did turned his stomach.

“We like everyone's hands where we can see them,” Savos said. “But it isn't all students here; Tolfdir's quarters are on this level, and Mirabelle's quarters are upstairs. Tolfdir is our Head Instructor, and I am certain that you've met Mirabelle.”

Ancano didn't look convinced.

“Look, you know how young apprentices can be,” Savos sighed. “Drunk magic, Sanguine summoning and gods know what else is forbidden here.”

The corner of the Thalmor's mouth twitched, and he chuckled. At least, Savos thought he did; even the man's laugh was terse.

“Well, I will let you get on with your evening,” Savis said. “I'm certain that you would like to rest after such a cold trip. I'll have someone bring you a cup of hot tea. Please let any of the instructors know if you need anything.”

With that, Savos took his leave. The probability that Ancano was there to improve relations was slim-to-none. His suspicion: the Thalmor wanted a reason to seize and shut the College down, and have it for their own purposes.

It was fortunate then that, with Mirabelle at his side, the College ran a relatively ethical practice.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Mehra groaned and stretched, alarmingly disoriented when she realized she wasn't sitting. She was in a bed somewhere, with her boots off and covers tucked up to her chin.

Where the hell was she?

She opened her eyes in a panic to look around the strange bedroom. What happened last night? Nothing appeared out of place; her clothes were still on, save the boots.

The bedroom door opened in front of her, and Orgnar peeked in.

“Oh, you're up. You slept through drinking time last night. Figured that meant you were exhausted; that lot could wake the dead with their rabblerousing.”

Mehra rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

“It's obvious that you've been starved,” he continued. “Delphine said she wouldn't be back for a day or so. She won't even know you used this room.”

Mehra swallowed and nodded.

“Didja come from jail or something?”

“Yeah,” she replied, looking down at the floor.

He furrowed his brow. Shaking his head, Orgnar sat down on the bed next to her. “Even if you're an elf, you're too young for that. Stay honest. Stay out of trouble.”

Mehra grabbed her boots, tugged them on, and began to tie them up. “If you want me to be honest,” she said, “you can have me start by paying for the food and the room.”

Orgnar nodded his head in agreement and helped her to her feet. He took a cursory glance at the bed, picking a single, black hair from the pillow, then tucked the sheets up around the mattress properly.

“Nobody was here, right?” He gave her a wink.

Mehra chuckled, picked up her heavy bag, and followed him out of the room and back in to the inn's main room. She wasn't sure what time of day it was, aside from the fact that it clearly wasn't an hour that visitors frequented. Stepping up to the bar, Mehra removed her coinpurse and began to count coins.

“Twenty,” Orgnar said. “Room's ten, and food is ten as well.”

Mehra nodded and counted out the proper amount while Orgnar went to his storeroom. He returned with a small bundle wrapped in cheesecloth. “Here's the food you're paying for. Dried meat, cheese, an apple, and something extra.”

She knew better than to protest. Instead she took the bag and gave him her thanks. The people of Riverwood were incredibly generous. Mehra thanked Orgnar again, then opened the door to head back to Whiterun.

Mehra smiled at the sight that greeted her. It was dawn, and she had the pleasure of watching the sunrise on her way back to Whiterun.

She'd never take the sunrise for granted again.

Mehra followed the road to Whiterun, keeping her eyes on the sky. Shuffling through her bag, Mehra pulled out the wrapped food from the inn. Inside was the expected meat, apple, and cheese. She hoped against all hope that the final part wasn't bread.

The cloth revealed a cluster of nuts and oats, stuck together and glistening with a hard shell. Mehra broke off a small piece of the treat and put it in her mouth. The taste of honey put a smile on her face; this was something very special.

Not wanting to waste it, she broke off another small part, then wrapped it once more. She then moved on to sample the other items, savoring her breakfast as she walked down the road and watched as Aetherius lit the clouds in a wash of orange and gold.

The trees thinned eventually, just as the sun rose enough to signal the start of a new day. Mehra wound her way down the mountains and down toward the farms dotting the grass around Whiterun. Before she knew it, she was in the city, nodding at everyone who said hello.

Mehra took the stone stairs up to the wealthy district, passing by a priest of Talos who shouted at the top of his lungs at the bottom of Dragonsreach. As she made her way up, she made an attempt to piece together her thoughts of Balgruuf. People wanted him dead; Irileth made sure that it didn't happen. He allowed a priest of Talos to preach to the city in front of his keep, yet he did not seem to care for Ulfric.

Mehra supposed that Balgruuf was an old-Empire man. Pro-Talos, yes, but also against the rebellion. Maybe this was why he hadn't chosen a side; there was no winning side, as far as he was concerned.

She gave the guards a nod and stopped in front of the heavy doors to Dragonsreach, pointing to her bag. “Delivery for Farengar.”

The guards nodded and let her in. Mehra stepped in to the great hall, up the stairs, and down the center carpet to the wizard's office. Balgruuf sat on his throne, talking with Proventius. He caught sight of her and smiled. Unsure of what to do, Mehra gave him a half-bow.

“I have that stone,” she said. The Jarl gave her a nod and motioned her toward the wizard's office.

Mehra turned to the right end of the hall and stood in the doorway. Farengar had company.

A cloaked woman stood next to him as they examined documents. He mentioned to her that the text in question was likely first era, written after the Dragon War. As he shifted his papers around, he noticed Mehra.

“Well! You didn't die,” Farengar said. “It seems that you are a cut above the brutes that the Jarl sends my way.”

Mehra entered the room and slung her pack on top of the desk with a thud. “I'm a delicate flower.”

The visiting woman smirked. Farengar appeared much less impressed.

“There was a wall with writing on it,” Mehra offered.

“Oh, wow! Really?” Farengar asked. “What did the writing look like? Did it look like a bunch of slashes?” He grabbed a nearby paper and showed it to her. Mehra swore she'd seen those words before as well.

“I read it,” she said. “I don't know how, but I read it. It was talking about an unrelenting force. I don't know how to say it, though.”

The court wizard rolled his eyes. As soon as he opened his mouth to speak, one of the guards in the hall shouted.

“Dragon!”

Mehra turned in horror to watch the guard run up to the Jarl.

“Dragon sighting!” he shouted.

Did it follow her? Was this her fault? Mehra swallowed and ran out to the main room, followed by Farengar. Balgruuf stood from his throne and stepped forward to support the panting guard.

“Tell me where you saw it,” the Jarl said, his voice surprisingly calm.

“It was at the western watchtower last time I saw it,” the guard panted. “It was just circling around. Never ran so fast in my life.”

“Irileth, send a company down there. We have to be ready.”

Mehra swallowed. It was circling the tower. Hawks did that. Vultures did that.

The dragon searched for prey.

Balgruuf gave the guard a thump on the shoulder and dismissed him to get some rest. Then, he turned to give Mehra a look that told her she wasn't going to like what he had to say next.

“Friend, I hate to ask this of you, but can you please accompany Irileth to help fight the dragon? You survived the attack at Helgen and know more about how the dragons fight than the rest of us.”

Mehra steeled herself and nodded. She told herself that stranger things had happened. Maybe a dragon would be easier to fight than Dagoth Ur. Then again, she was in poor shape.

“They may be elemental,” she recommended. “The one at Helgen breathed fire.”

Irileth nodded. “Noted.”

Behind them, Farengar watched in interest. “I would like to see this dragon up close, for study.”

“No,” the Jarl said, “this is dangerous enough. I cannot lose both of you, if it comes to that.”

Farengar looked disappointed, but kept quiet. Mehra gave him a nod and made her way to the front of Dragonsreach with Irileth.

“I recommend using ice spells on it if it breathes fire,” Mehra said. “Use fire if it uses an ice blast. Regardless of if it works or not, it will still be damaged.”

“I use shock, primarily,” Irileth frowned.

Mehra sighed as they jogged down the stairs. “Were I in better heath, I'd be able to cast a spell that would blast its scales right off. As is, it'll take me many months to recover, maybe even a year or more.”

The guards at the front of the keep opened the doors for them.

“I'll take it as a personal note to not let myself go in a similar manner,” Irileth murmured.

“See that you don't. I bring a great shame to my house as I am.”

There was no reply, and they jogged through the city to the front gate. There, a group of soldiers waited. “Good initiative,” Irileth said. “Let's move out!”

They left the city and entered the main road. Mehra saw smoke in the distance and swore. The damned thing already attacked. Picking up their pace, the group arrived at the decimated tower.

“Where is it?” Irileth shouted.

A group of ash-stained guards stood around the flaming ruins. Closer to the back, a bearded blond stood, his longsword ready. “It flew in fast,” he said. “A few men are down. It seemed to shout when –”

“It's coming back!”

Everyone stood at ready as the dragon flew back around. This wasn't the same dragon in Helgen; this one was smaller. Though the thought that there were multiple dragons flying around was something of a horror, she'd take a weaker opponent this day.

The dragon landed, shaking the ground with its tremendous weight. Mehra charged in with her sword, a frost spike ready in her other hand.

“Avoid the jaws!” she shouted. “Watch the tail! Aim for any soft parts!”

The guards swarmed the dragon as it belched fire, and Irileth struck it with a shock spell. As Mehra loosed her ice spike, the dragon turned to stare at her.

It knew who she was.

Shouting, she took the creature head on, driving her sword in between its neck and jaw. The dragon's blood sprayed on to the ground as it roared in pain. Soldiers attacked it from all sides; one drew too close to the tail and was sent to the ground with a sickening crunch.

Mehra charged up another ice spike and stabbed it into the dragon's neck. With a sound closer to a whimper than a roar, the dragon collapsed on the ground.

Was it dead?

The dragon appeared to catch on fire and everyone backed away from it, wondering if the fight was truly over. Scales and flesh melted off. The dragon's soul escaped its body and –

It seeped in to her nostrils, in her mouth – through every pore – warming her and making her faint. Her legs lost their strength. Mehra sat on the charred ground as the dragon's soul poured itself in to her body. She was like a living soul gem.

And just as it had begun, it was done. The raging soul inside her told her the word she saw in the wall, then diminished to almost nothing. Incredible.

She came to reality to hear the guards celebrating. The blond ran over to her and awed.

“You must be dragonborn!” he said. “They are ones with the dragon's blood and they can shout in dragon tongue without studying the voice.”

Another one of the guards laughed. “I remember my grandfather telling me stories about that.”

“Try it! Try to shout!”

Mehra stood on shaky feet and looked around. The tower was gone. Charred and dismembered corpses dotted the ground. Shaking her head, Mehra turned in a direction with nothing to harm. If this was a dragon shout, then she ought to be careful with it.

“Fus!” She shouted, marveling at how the word did indeed push everything out of its path.

“You are!” the guard laughed. “You're dragonborn!”

Yes, Mehra knew she was dragonborn. She didn't know it meant this, however. Then again, not even Talos had dragons around to take souls from. This was something entirely new.

“Irileth,” one of the guards said. “You've been quiet on this. Don't you think it's possible?”

“I don't know anything about this dragonborn superstition,” Irileth admitted, “but I am glad she is on our side. I have been in many hairy fights before, and that was the hairiest.”

She nodded at Mehra. “We need to report our success to the Jarl.”

They turned and began their walk back up to Whiterun. Mehra looked up as the sky suddenly clouded. She heard distant thunder.

“Dovahkiin!” sounded across the sky, and as soon as the word was uttered, the clouds disappeared.

Mehra's heart fell in to the pit of her stomach. That was her, wasn't?

“What in Oblivion?” Irileth swore. “Did you hear that?”

She nodded in reply, not trusting her voice. Someone important wanted her attention – again. This time, there was no way that Mehra was remotely close to being capable of doing whatever was required of her. And she was quite certain that there would be incredibly difficult requirements for whatever came next.

Numbly, she walked alongside Irileth to the entrance of Dragonsreach. Mehra knew better than to write off the shout in the sky, especially after she absorbed a dragon's soul without thinking about it.

They entered the tower, and Irileth shouted an “all clear”. Jarl Balgruuf visibly relaxed. He turned to Farengar and another man and said something to them in a low voice, while Proventius nodded beside him. The newcomer wore scaled armor, complete with horns, his face painted with red streaks. As he looked at Mehra, he rubbed his knotted beard in thought. After a moment of staring, the man shrugged; he obviously didn't know what to make of her.

As Mehra approached, Balgruuf pinned her with a stare. “You heard the summons. What happened out there?”

“Watchtower is destroyed,” she reported. “I saw about eight casualties from a quick glance. The dragon is dead.”

Irileth rolled her eyes and Mehra winced. Was her avoidance that obvious?

“But there must be more to to it,” the Jarl insisted. “I will get the official report from Irileth. What else?”

She couldn't hide it. Exhaling, Mehra looked at the ground. “I'm Dragonborn. Apparently that means I can shout.”

“Dragonborn?” Balgruuf asked. “What do you know about the Dragonborn?”

“I absorbed the dragon's essence and was able to pronounce the word I saw in Bleak Falls Barrow,” she admitted. “It was as if I were a soul gem. The soul went in on its own.”

Balgruuf sat up, his eyes wide. “Then the Greybeards did summon you!” He turned to the man on his left. “Brother, you were right.”

Mehra bit her lip in worry. So, she was going to be dealing with the Greybeards. She needed to look more into them to get a better picture.

Proventius stood off to the side, frowning. “Who are the Greybeards?”

“They are the masters of the Voice. They live at the top of the Throat of the World,” Balgruuf said. He turned to Mehra and gave her a nod. “You must go to them.”

“I suppose I will, then,” Mehra murmured. She swallowed the lump in her throat. There could be another dragonborn out there. What if Martin had a descendent? It was such a longshot. A pious priest of Akatosh having a bastard child seemed borderline ridiculous.

“The Greybeards haven't summoned anyone since Tiber Septim, and that was when he was yet called Talos of Atmora. This honor is incredible.”

Proventius shook his head. “What does this Nord nonsense have to do with our friend here?”

The man standing next to the Jarl looked ready to give Proventius a thrashing, but Mehra cut him off.

“This same 'Nord nonsense' title of Dragonborn was given to Talos, as well as the Nerevarine and Martin Septim. Opening a history book would serve you well.”

In the back of the room, Farengar coughed, his face turning red as he held in a fit of laughter. The Jarl's brother seemed pleased with what she said as well. Holding his hands up, Proventius backed down.

“Where are the Greybeards located?” Mehra asked. When they summoned her, it sounded as if their voices came from all directions.

“At the base of the mountain where their monastery is located is a town called Ivarstead,” Balgruuf said. “Go there first.”

Oh. Ivarstead. Mehra's heart fell. Wasn't Erich from there? She wondered what would be an appropriate gift to leave at a Nord's gravesite, but figured that perhaps, she ought to give something from the heart. She would ponder on it later.

“You have done Whiterun an incredible service,” Balgruuf said. “I thank you for protecting Whiterun. I hope that if we have another dragon attack, you are there to stop it. Without you, and without Irileth, our city may have been lost.”

“If a dragon attacks while I am here,” she said, “I would consider it an honor to protect this hold. Your people are kind and honorable.”

So long as they weren't too powerful. The mere thought of the dragon from Helgen made her hair stand on end. She knew the thought was cowardly, but Mehra was quite helpless, considering her previous strength.

“I know that you have joined the Companions,” the Jarl mused, “and I know that a warrior's honor dictates that they do not take handouts. But you do appear to be on hard times, friend. Please, go down to Adrianne Avenicci's shop. Take Lydia with you. Get a new set of properly fitting armor for yourself and tell Adrianne to send the bill to me. A warrior fighting dragons must have properly fitting armor. You're swimming in what you're wearing.”

Balgruuf waved his hand, and a young Nord woman in steel armor stepped forward. She thumped her chest with her fist and bowed, her black braids falling over her face. “Honor to you.”

“And let it be known that two Dunmer women destroyed the first dragon in Skyrim,” Balgruuf smirked. “Give Ulfric something to think about, right Hrongar?”

The Jarl's brother laughed. “You're fine warriors. I wish I could have joined.”

“It was a hell of a fight,” Irileth said. “This skinny little thing is much tougher than she looks.”

“Keep them guessing, right?” Mehra chuckled.

With that, she took her leave and followed Farengar back to his office to grab her bag. On her way there, her thumb rubbed against the band of the Moon-and-Star. She thought a quick prayer of thanks to Azura for her protection that day. She hadn't heard from her since she took care of the awkward business with the Tribunal centuries prior, but knew that the daedra must have heard; the ancient ring connected them.

Whether or not Azura wanted to interact with her ever again was another matter entirely.

With a heavy heart, Mehra found her bag as it had been – on top of the table, crushing important documents with the weight of the stone within. Farengar removed the stone and handed the bag to Mehra with a nod.

“So, you know a bit about the dragonborn legend?” he asked.

Mehra closed her eyes. “Dragon-born and far-star marked,” she sighed. “Outlander incarnate beneath Red Mountain.”

“I haven't read that specific text,” he admitted. “Nerevarine prophecy, perhaps?”

“Yes,” she replied. “It's part of three lost prophecies. If you can find copies, it may help you look in to dragonborn traits.”

Mehra mentally cursed. She needed to shut her trap; Farengar wasn't an idiot and he could have her figured out. But the notion of being found out and possibly understood was tantalizing.

“I'll look in to it,” Farengar nodded. “Unlike others around Skyrim, I find value in the knowledge of all cultures.”

He leaned over and peered at the dragon stone. “Er, I don't suppose that dragon soul told you anything about how to translate this?”

Mehra stepped over and peered at the dark, ancient stone. Though she attempted to summon the dragon's soul in an attempt to translate, she was met with a solid wall of nothing. It was as if she'd used up the soul to learn the previous word. If this was true, then perhaps her use of it was callous and wasteful.

She shook her head. “Sorry. It's like I used up the soul to learn the one word.”

Farengar crossed his arms and squinted at the stone. Shrugging, he turned to her. “Looks like I'll have to research it the old-fashioned way. Still, your work and knowledge today was impressive. You have my thanks.”

Lydia shifted behind her. “Impressive, and it isn't even noon yet.” She gave Mehra a small smile.

Mehra laughed. “I haven't even begun to be impressive today,” she said. “Want to watch me make a grown man cry?”

Lydia nodded, and Mehra slung her pack over her shoulder. Saying goodbye to Farengar, she left Dragonsreach with Lydia in tow. They made their way down the stairs and through the city, toward the Bannered Mare. Lydia drew in closer, until they walked closely. Leaning in, she looked around to see if anyone was listening.

“Pardon,” Lydia murmured, “What's this you're doing?”

Mehra nodded in the direction of the inn. “There's a guy in there badmouthing the Whiterun guards. I was sent by the Companions to shut him up. I figure since it's on my way, I might as well do something about it. I have the suspicion that the Companions don't like to be left waiting on their tasks. You don't have a problem with stopping on the way, do you?”

Lydia shook her head and asked no further questions. Together, they took the stairs up to the inn and stepped inside. Mehra scanned the room for anyone who looked like a troublemaker, but couldn't come up with anything. Shrugging, Mehra decided to make the process easier for herself.

“Hey, Sinmir!” she shouted.

Everyone in the room turned to give her a glance, but the blond, helmeted man in the corner stood. He turned to her and scowled. Singling him out, Mehra approached the mountain of a man. When she was within a respectable distance, Mehra crossed her arms. “I hear that you don't like the guards of this fine city.”

Sinmir rolled his eyes and mirrored her posture. “I don't,” he said. “They're lazy, same as their Imperial-bastard captain.”

Mehra nodded. At least the fellow was honest about it. “The Companions have something they'd like to say about that.”

“Through what? You?” he snorted. “Don't be ridiculous.”

“As someone sent by the Companions,” Mehra said, “and as someone who just finished killing a dragon, I strongly encourage you to reverse your opinion, or at least keep your mouth shut about it.”

Sinmir laughed. “And how did you get in to the Companions?” he asked. “Do you do the cooking, or the cleaning?”

Mehra heard Lydia cracking her knuckles behind her. “My friend,” Lydia hissed. “Allow me to take care of this trash of a man and show him what a woman–”

Mehra held up her hand to tell Lydia to stand down. Out of the corner of her eye, Mehra watched her step back. Still, the woman kept her eye on Sinmir, and made it quite obvious that she disapproved of him.

“A section of those guards volunteered to defend the city against a dragon,” Mehra said. “I suggest you keep your mouth shut, if you know what's good for you.”

“And if you know what's good for you,” Sinmir replied, “you will turn around and walk right back to wherever you came from.”

Their discussion was drawing the attention of the other patrons; Mehra decided that she had enough talk. She jerked her head at Sinmir.

“Make me,” Mehra hissed.

Sinmir stepped forward and shoved her backward. “Get lost, kid.”

Lashing out, Mehra grabbed his arm and bent his fingers in the wrong direction. Sinmir gasped, falling to his knees.

"You shut your mouth,” Mehra ordered. She increased the pressure on his fingers, making him groan in pain. “You shut your mouth, you hear?”

Sinmir nodded and she let go. Giving him a final, hushed warning, Mehra turned on her heel and left the inn with Lydia following close behind.

The air outside cooled her flushed face and brought her to her senses. Apparently, attacking people was still a rush. Mehra made a mental note to avoid similar situations in the future.

“If you had been my Thane,” Lydia said, “I would have stepped in and caved his nose in. I was tempted to, regardless. But you seemed like you had a good handle on it. That will teach him to badmouth my Jarl's guards.”

Mehra laughed. Thane of Whiterun? The city was nice, but she was far from a capable protector. Even if she were, she didn't want the attention.

She walked with Lydia down to the smith's shop, putting the silly notion out of her mind.

 


	4. Chapter 4

A/n: I don't know where the hell this chapter ran off to, but it is HUGE. I couldn't think of a good place to break it up, so I decided to leave it as-is. I hope you enjoy it!

I've taken some liberties with Telvanni aging etc, but Neloth is much older in Morrowind compared to Skyrim. It's not just a default character face issue, either; in Morrowind, as a starting Telvanni member, you have a quest to get materials for his arthritis ointment, and in Skyrim, he's running around ruins blasting things (and much nicer and much more talkative). I personally don't think it's too much of a leap to think that the Telvanni mages have a way to reverse physical age, likely through a somewhat profane ritual.

Given that this story is about the Nerevarine, I will be looking a lot at the implications of near-immortality. I figure Telvanni wizards would know quite a bit about this as well.

Also mentioned in this chapter: My personal thoughts on how the magical teleport systems worked in Morrowind: A permanent 'waypoint' is created by magical means, then the user can cast a spell to recall the waypoint and teleport them there. A talented mage (mages guild, Telvanni) could teleport others, as well as themselves to a waypoint of their choosing, if they are powerful enough. I don't think an explanation was given for this in the lore, so this is my take on it.

Sorry for the tldr! This chapter does have a little bit of meta concepts in it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_"But everyone expects me to suddenly know what to do. How to behave. They want an Emperor to tell them what to do. And I haven't the faintest idea...”_

_-Martin Septim_

 

 

* * *

 

 

4E 200. Akavir.

 

“And she has been captive for this long?”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

Reptilian eyes peered in through the bars of her cell.

“My grandmother's journal says that you had a death wish,” she said. “That nobody would do such horrible things if they didn't want to commit suicide by way of the authorities.”

Her forked tongue flickered out to taste the air.

“She said that you were so nasty that you didn't deserve to have your way. You would rot in prison for your crimes.”

A clawed hand wrapped around a rusted iron bar, but Mehra couldn't get a good read out of her. The Tsaesci used body language different from any race she encountered, including the Argonians.

“Well, you haven't rotted yet, have you? One hundred and ninety-eight years in prison, and sure, you're thin, but you don't look a day older. What magic are you working?”

Mehra cleared her throat, trying to get her voice to work.

“Azura's champion,” she croaked. She slumped against the wall of her cell; her voice was a wreck.  
  
“You're serious? Are your gods so ready to abandon their people?”

“I was nasty.” That was the short and sweet of it, she supposed.

“The report says you single-handedly slaughtered around five hundred before capture. Apparently, we couldn't tell easily because most of the corpses were ashes. So, I suppose 'nasty' is accurate.”

The guards outside her cell fidgeted. Apparently, they hadn't known.

“Those red eyes and gray skin make you look like a devil,” the Tsaesci mused. “Maybe you're pretty, back where you come from?”

A bitter laugh escaped her. “I was an object of lust, not love.” She felt her voice strengthening with each new word.

“I was nasty,” she repeated. Mehra ought to have found a way to work things out with that Brotherhood Assassin, Erich. As it was, he was likely one-hundred and seventy years dead in the ground. He wasn't her moral compass in the least, but he had acceptance in spades. The assassin's cloak didn't sit well on his shoulders.

“Do you know who I am?” she asked.

Mehra shook her head. “Forgive me; I do not.”

“In one word: Queen.”

“To what do I owe the honor?” she asked.

The serpent-woman in front of her crossed her arms as she sized her up. She said something to the guards in her native tongue that startled them, but they shaped up quickly and snapped a salute. One of the guards took off down the corridor in a jog.

“You shall stay in my palace for some time,” the Queen declared.

The guard returned with the keys to her cell and opened it without hesitation. Mehra heard the sound before many times, but rarely at her own cell.

“We will feed you well enough that you may have enough strength to travel. Then, you will take the first boat back to Tamriel.”

The Queen shook her head. “And if I am foolish to misjudge you, I pray that the gods will deliver us from your evil.”

Mehra nodded, not trusting her voice. She could go home. The Queen motioned to her to follow, and she made a few steps before collapsing. Mehra staggered to her feet.

“It struggles like prey,” one of the guards chuckled. Every hair on her arm stood on end.

The Queen whirled around to glare at the guard. “Do not threaten my guest.”

She crouched down and helped Mehra up. The clawed hand on her arm was gentle as she led her down the prison corridors toward the main door.

Mehra wept when she saw the sun for the first time in centuries.

 

* * *

 

 

4E 201. Throat of the World.  


Errands. Everywhere she went, someone had an errand to send her on. This one, however, she didn't mind. Even reclusive monks that followed an ancient and powerful order needed food. And since she was going up there, Mehra supposed she ought to drop the package off.

By the time she reached the top of the mountain, the sack of dried goods felt like a pile of dwemer cogs.

Mehra stumbled her way up the last set of steps leading up to High Hrothgar, collapsing in a heap in front of a supply chest. She wondered if Erich ever made the arduous climb to the top of the mountain where his home was, but dismissed the thought quickly. He was likely too lazy to ever have bothered, despite his strange desire to climb things.

She attempted to gather herself, but the muscles in her legs seized up painfully.

“Oh, hell.”

Mehra was so close to the temple. Just a dozen more stairs led to the entrance. With a groan, she flopped back down into the snow. There were more damned stairs. Out of habit, her thumb found the band of the moon-and-star ring. Mehra rubbed it and closed her eyes. What was there to say to Azura? When she was in prison, she held the ring close and prayed, only to be met with silence.

Mehra shook her head; she deserved nothing but silence for abandoning Morrowind to fate.

Letting go, she rocked up to sit then made her way to her feet. Mehra stumbled her way up the remaining icy steps to the monastery, then stopped at the door.

Was she supposed to knock, or something? Vivec let her just walk in after he requested her audience. Shrugging, Mehra took her cue from a completely different culture and a completely different time, and opened the heavy iron door.

She shuffled in on stiff legs. By the time she made it past the entrance hallway, a group of elderly, robed men approached.

“Hello. I heard your summons,” Mehra said.

They said nothing, and only nodded. Finally, another man made his way in to the room.

“So, a Dragonborn appears at this time, at the turning of the age,” he said.

“I am here to answer your summons,” Mehra replied.  
  
Oh. The food.

She took the bag of goods off her back and held it out. “Here. Supplies from Ivarstead.”

One of the silent monks stepped forward to receive the bag, a bright smile on his face. He took it, and gave her a quick bow. Hopefully, they'd like the little extra goodies she sneaked in there.

“I am Arngeir, high priest of the Greybeards,” the monk said. “The others do not speak; if they spoke to you, the power of their voices would tear you apart. It took many years of study before I was able to speak normally.”

The monk who took the bag from her smiled again and nodded, then shuffled away to put the supplies in another room.

“Oh,” Mehra murmured. “I wish you well in your studies, then.”

The two others nearby nodded and smiled. She supposed this was a 'thank you' of some sort.

Arngeir turned to Mehra. “We shall see if you have the gift. Let us see your voice.”

The monk who took the supplies scuttled back into the room in excitement. She wasn't sure where she could turn her head to make it safe; the Greybeards stood scattered around, and there was pottery sitting against the only open wall.

“Where do you want me to direct this?” Mehra asked.

“At me. I wish to test its power.”

Mehra clasped her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide. He wanted her to use it on him. She saw what it did. If she blew this old man back, she could seriously hurt him.

“You're reluctant to use it?” Arngeir asked. “Interesting. Do not be afraid; I will not be harmed.”

Well, if Arngeir said it was all right, then it was on him. Mehra took a deep breath.

“Fus!”

The blast hit the priest, and he staggered back. Around him, the other greybeards gasped in amazement. Arngeir righted himself, shook his head, and blinked his eyes.

“You are Dragonborn!” he nodded. “Now, tell me why you have come here.”

“Someone here summoned me.” She couldn't be mistaken, could she?

“That we have,” Arngeir replied. “We are honored to have you here. We will teach you to use your gifts in the fulfillment of your destiny.”

“My destiny?” Wasn't ridding Vvardenfell of the Blight enough? Mehra made her way to the center of the room to get closer.

“That is for you to discover. We can show you the way, but not your destination.”

“Then I will learn whatever you will teach me.” Unlearned power was dangerous power, after all. Still, there had to be someone better to have control of this ability.

“I –” Mehra swallowed, “I'll be honest. I feel that I do not deserve this responsibility.”

One of the monks in the back gave her a smile and nodded in approval.

“An interesting attitude,” Arngeir mused. “The Way of the Voice dictates that the Voice is to be used only in a time of true need.”

Mehra nodded. She liked that. It made sense.

“Let us see if you are able to learn. Your dragon blood gives you the innate ability to learn the words of power.”

One of the silent Greybeards stepped forward and waved his hands in the direction of the ground. Mehra felt heat and air as a new word took shape on the ancient stone. Curious, she approached it, crouched down, and examined it. The word etched itself into her mind, much like the word in Bleak Falls Barrow.

Mehra itched to understand this word. She looked back at Arngeir, who stared at her in shock.

“You learn a new word like a master. You truly do have the gift! Now, for the first two trials.”

Mehra sighed. Hopefully these trials wouldn't be too difficult.

 

* * *

 

 

Mehra watched as Master Einarth poured tea into a cup in front of her. When the cup was full, he gave her a nod. Mehra thanked him and wrapped her hands around the warm earthenware. She breathed deeply and glanced around the room.

They appeared to be in an ancient war room, stripped down from its old use and left bare for the Greybeards' minimalistic lifestyle. A series of faded cloth banners hung above the gigantic, oval stone table at which they sat. Each banner had some sort of dragon-tongue embroidery on it, but Mehra couldn't decipher the words. In the center of the table was a square fire pit, and across to the other side of the room, a single table – also made of stone – with a silver pitcher and bowl. The apples that Mehra sneaked into the supplies lay in the silver bowl.

To the right, a lone snowberry plant sat in between the two archways that led into the room – likely someone's attempt at creating some sort of cheer against the solemn backdrop of stone.

Mehra looked down at her cup of tea and brought it closer so the steam could warm her face. She passed what Arngeir said were the first two trials: they amounted to an examination of her ability learn and use shouts. The process was natural and instinctual, and it was certainly easier than attempting to wrangle all of the Ashlanders and Great Houses into accepting her as their champion.

Mehra sat with the silent, elderly monks –Einarth, Borri, and Wulfgar. They were clearly astonished by her skill.

“We do not receive guests very often,” Arngeir sighed. “When one is unable to speak, it makes such things difficult. But we chose this life.”

Borri nodded and stared down into his cup of tea. The other silent monks nodded in agreement.

Arngeir looked at Mehra and shook his head. “Your mastery of the Thu'um is truly astonishing. I've heard stories of the Dragonborn, but to see it myself is incredible.”

“I don't think I'm that impressive, Master.”

There was a twinkling in his eye as he took a sip of his tea. Mehra didn't like hearing that she was so wonderful, not after what she did. She was just like everyone else, and in a world where she could do no wrong, Mehra found that she had no boundaries. Mehra took a drink of her tea and realized she'd have to set them straight.

“I was imprisoned for murdering over five hundred people.”

Arngier lifted a brow at her. “With the voice?”

“With magic and a sword.”

“Strange. You do not seem likely to do such a thing.”

“I wouldn't dream of it now,” she sighed. “I'll do what I have to, but aside from that, I try to avoid things that bring out my nasty streak.”

“Avoidance is not necessarily conducive to learning,” Arngeir replied. “Rather, it weakens you and makes you prone to failure. Our founder, Jurgen Windcaller, provided an example of this after the defeat of the Tongues at Red Mountain. Do you know of this battle?”

Mehra nodded, biting her lip as foreign emotions took over. So many Chimer lives lost. Mehra fought the Tongues – no, Nerevar did – and it brought peace. But after that? Everything went wrong.

Voryn betrayed them all. Nerevar loved Voryn Dagoth as a brother. But the power of the Heart of Lorkhan was seductive. Even when she fought Dagoth for the last time, the Heart called to her. And if she had known how to use it, Mehra had no doubt that she would have.

The heart was cursed, and it brought death, destruction, and calamity for far too long. Even now, Mehra felt bound up with the fate of the destroyed – disappeared, more likely – heart.

“Why are you crying, child?”

Mehra blinked and wiped tears away from her face. She had to think of something plausible to tell him. “I lived on Vvardenfell for a while. Things are bad, there. That island is in my heart often.”

“Destruction is part of the natural cycle,” Arngeir said. “Afterward comes rebirth. For centuries, the Voice was used as a weapon of war. The voiceless Chimer defeated those who used the Voice to make war. Jurgen Windcaller meditated on this, and made the decision that the Voice was not to be used for war. He swallowed the shouts of the other Tongues who disagreed for three days until they became silenced.”

“So, he faced his troubles with peace and meditation,” he concluded. “And only did what was necessary.”

Einarth reached across the table and grabbed her hands. Staring into her eyes, he silently mouthed, “Be good. You be good. Swallow the bad voice.”

Mehra sighed. “I am trying.”

“Too much worry,” Einarth mouthed.

The other two silent monks nodded in agreement.

“I agree with Master Einarth,” Arngeir said. “Do not worry over what your actions may bring you. If you are conscious enough to ponder your actions, then you are certainly capable of making the right decisions. Meditate often. Embrace silence.”

“And now, the cycle is reborn,” he mused. “A descendent of the Chimer is now Dragonborn.”

She didn't want to know what they'd think of her being the reincarnation of Nerevar, the general who defeated the invading Nords. Perhaps, that information was to be saved until they had a better rapport. Instead, Mehra opted to change the subject to something safer.

“Do you know why the dragons have returned?” she asked. “Does it have something to do with me?”

“I have no doubt. Your destiny is bound up with the dragons.”  
  
“I have been around for some time,” she said. “Why do they appear now?”

“I do not know. Your path will be made clear when you learn more of the Voice.”

Arngeir nodded at Borri, who left the room.

Mehra swirled the remainder of the tea in her cup, watching as small fragments of leaves sluggishly followed the tea's movement. She brought the cup to her lips and downed the last of the tea, just as Borri returned with a large roll of paper in his hands.

“You are now ready for your final trial,” Arngeir said. “You must retrieve the horn of Jurgen Windcaller from the high fane of Ustengrav.”

He took the paper from Borri and unrolled it to reveal a large, ancient map and showed her where Ustengrav was located. Advising her to avoid the mountain pass – there was a daedric shrine up there and a dangerous dwemer ruin – Arngeir told her to go west from Whiterun and around to Morthal, then travel toward the ancient fane from there.

Mehra nodded as she memorized the map. It was a long distance. Without a doubt, she'd need to make camp in the wilderness.

Maybe the Companions would have some advice on that matter. In fact, maybe they had something for her to do on her way there. She wanted to make herself as useful as possible. She'd do an errand for the Companions, then get the long lost Horn of Jurgen Windcaller for the decidedly kind Greybeards.

And though she didn't want to admit it, Mehra had the feeling that her life was about to change again.

 

* * *

 

 

4E 201. Solstheim.

 

Well, that was that, he supposed. He couldn't go any further without someone to order around to get the steam system correct. The unlocking mechanism worked on steam power, which wouldn't work if he didn't have enough cubes. Pity, that.

Neloth took one last look at the flooded ruins before removing the cube he already had. He waited for the water to fill the room, then cast a water walking spell and made his way out of the flooded room.

Stepping over a fallen dwemer spider near the door, he thought that perhaps, he ought to wait until he could bring someone other than Talvas. He broke one apprentice already, and ruining another so quickly would be unwise; he didn't want the Council to pester him about it. Either he would bring someone incredibly trustworthy – who didn't exist – or he would bring someone incredibly stupid who wouldn't know the value of what was hidden in the ruins.

Neloth stepped into the next room and scowled. There were dead contraptions everywhere. Unable to be bothered to step over all of them, he cast a simple levitation spell and made his way through the air to the other side of the room.

Landing safely on the other side, Neloth picked his way through the ruins until he reached the main door. Throwing it open, he glanced around for signs of life before closing it and adding a magical seal. He was the only one capable of opening it, now. He just had to bide his time and come across the right adventurer to take along to the ruin with him.

When it came to things like this, Neloth was patient. He was impatient with foolish questions and idiots, but when it came to something magnificent – such as the Black Book – he was the model of patience. It wasn't as if he'd grow older waiting a few years for it.

With measured steps, he made his way across the crooked walkways that connected the towers to each other, avoiding the piles of ash that were once bandits. Two hundred years ago, he wouldn't have dreamed of walking anywhere other than somewhere within his own tower. After the eruption and his move to Solstheim, however, he had been forced into performing a bit of a ritual in order to obtain much-needed vitality and youth.

There weren't enough young up-and-coming wizards to pick through dangerous and filthy ruins for him. Neloth grudgingly admitted that doing his own field research felt like he was accomplishing something. And he'd get things done faster than some inexperienced fool, as well.

He didn't miss the aching joints from being old in the least. There were drawbacks, of course; a more youthful body had carnal desires. And now that Ildari was dead, such things were quite the inconvenience. The new apprentice, Talvas, was more respectful than she had ever been at least. Did nothing for him, though. And Varona, though passable, was a neglectful shrew.

Well, that was another thing to think on later.

Neloth made his way down the front stairs of the ruin and stepped onto the ash-covered road. Behind him, Red Mountain smoked in the distance, as it had for nearly two centuries. The island on which it resided had been his home for his entire life – all three thousand or so years – up to the point that it erupted. Seeing the smoking mountain made him feel older than ever, in a strange sense.

Neloth drew his fur cloak closer to his body and scowled. He was getting sentimental about a ash-spewing hunk of rock.

Resolving not to think of it, he trudged back to the tower. As he drew closer, Neloth saw Talvas and Varona outside. His apprentice worked on the summon ash guardian spell, failing miserably with each attempt. To his credit, Talvas kept a level head with each failure.

Neloth stopped outside the tower and scowled. Against Talvas' credit, his face was uncovered. At least Varona had the sense to cover up.

“I hate repeating myself,” Neloth said. The pair jumped at the sound of his voice. Yes, he caught them doing something wrong.

“I apologize,” Talvas said, not waiting to hear his offense. Neloth would credit the kid's respect, at the very least.

“It is yourself that you are harming,” Neloth said. “I couldn't care less with what you do. But the rattling cough from ash-lung is irritating, and when you most certainly get it, I will remove you from the premises.”

“I'm sorry, Master?”

Neloth narrowed his eyes. “Where did you grow up, boy?”

“The mainland, sir.”

“And when a native islander tells you to cover your nose and mouth when you're out in the ash, you don't listen.” Idiots! He was surrounded by idiots.

“I know better,” Varona said, her voice muffled her headscarf. She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes.

“You are absolved,” Neloth declared. He turned to his apprentice. “Not even for a minute, Talvas. You will live for so long that each minute will add up. Having my student die of ash-lung would tarnish my reputation.”

Even though the ash didn't carry blight, it was still ash. Again: idiot.

Neloth turned on his heel and stomped his way up the path to the tower. Talvas followed behind, his head hung in shame from his scolding. Throwing the door open, Neloth stepped into the levitation beam –was forced to get the damned thing because apparently nobody could be arsed to learn a levitation spell– and floated to the top.

He removed his cloak and tossed it on the rack where it belonged. Below, Neloth heard quiet murmuring. “Never told me anything about ash lung.”

“Don't worry about it,” Varona mumbled. “Just cover your face from here on out. He's right. I'll show you how we wrap up on this island.”

He never told him? No, Talvas hadn't listened in the first place. What was the point of having an apprentice if they didn't listen? Neloth shook his head and unwound his scarf from his head and put it in its proper place.

“There is a letter for you, Master,” Varona called. “I put it on your desk. Looks important.”

A letter? Whatever for? Grumbling, Neloth made his way to his desk and grabbed the single, out of place piece of paper. When he turned it over and saw the Archmagister's seal on it, he was tempted to torch the thing. Neloth broke the seal and read the letter.

Sure enough, the letter was full of vapid pleasantries from a man that ought to have been old enough to be beyond such things. It mentioned something about the Council missing him at their meetings, and Aryon wanting to hunt youthful souls together or some such nonsense. There was no point to this letter. Aryon made no demands, though apparently, he had hopes for a reply.

Irritated that his time had been wasted, Neloth summoned fire in his hands and burned the letter outright. He wanted nothing to do with it. At least, living on Solstheim had gotten rid of most of the day-to-day annoyances of having to interact with idiots.

As always, Neloth just wanted to be left in peace.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

4E 201. Whiterun.

 

Not even Jorrvaskr was immune to spring cleaning. Each door and window on the ancient building was thrown wide open, airing out the musty winter smell inside.

Mehra sat under the aged awning that overlooked the training courtyard. Behind her, Tilma scrubbed the old, wooden floorboards of Jorrvaskr by herself, despite Mehra's offer to help. The elderly woman already had the bedding cleaned; crisp, white linens flapped in the breeze on the clothes line at the corner of the yard. She was quite certain that Tilma was bent on deep cleaning the entire building before the day ended, and she'd likely drag Brill along to perform the heavier tasks.

Mehra shifted in her chair, wincing at the tenderness in her feet. People certainly walked a lot in Skyrim. She leaned down to untie her boots, but a quick glance up made her forget about it.

Athis was distracting.

Mehra found herself staring at him for the umpteenth time that day. He looked like he crawled out of an Ashlander Camp: half-naked, covered in furs, and painted. She hadn't seen a man like him in centuries and figured he could have easily passed as a Zainab hunter.

Athis swung his practice sword again, beads of sweat rolling down his chest. At some point during his training, he lost the top half of his armor in order to keep cool. Mehra licked her lips. Usually, she liked her men a lot more well-groomed, but it had been many years since she saw a non-reptilian man.

Maybe it was the chest muscles? Her eyes drifted downward to appreciate the ridged muscles of his stomach, and Mehra concluded that perhaps, the entire sweaty, half-naked package was appealing.

“You are gawking,” Aela chuckled.

Mehra startled and nearly fell out of her chair, much to Aela's amusement. The Nord crouched next to her chair, her face conspiratorially close. With a sigh, Mehra turned to the archer.

“Don't spread this around,” she murmured, “I just got out of jail. Give me a little slack for looking. A gal can get lonesome behind bars.”

Aela nodded and gave her a pointed look. “Then here's a little bit of friendly advice: fraternization could get you kicked out, so I'd look elsewhere.”

Mehra nodded in understanding. A rule against such things was reasonable.

Sure, she and Athis had a few conversations, but Mehra doubted that he was interested enough to bother with her. She didn't look much like a warrior, given her stint in prison. And, for an ambitious person like him, going for a bottom of the heap woman wouldn't be productive.

Really, she had no prospects.

“Honestly,” Mehra replied, “I'm better off not doing anything. The last thing I need is this Dragonborn business catching wind and having someone brag about what they did with me.”

“True,” Aela nodded. “Though you could easily put most in their place.”

And besides, she had been two hundred years without, and it wasn't like she was growing older by the minute. “Just art appreciation,” Mehra chuckled. “Decent with that sword, too.” A spell or two thrown in there would make his fight all the more fierce, but the Companions didn't seem to appreciate such things.

Aela sat down on the ground next to Mehra, her face nearly level with hers. Aela turned to her with a predatory grin. “Heard you did that job for Farkas,” she said. “In fact, I heard it through town rumors. Everyone's talking about the tiny elf girl who twisted that huge man's fingers backward and made him cry.”

“And, you slew a dragon, too,” Aela mused. “We should hunt together sometime.”

“What do you want to hunt? A dragon?”

“Could be anything,” Aela grinned. “A dragon sounds nice, though. I wonder how we can find one.”

Mehra hunched over and stared at the sky from underneath the awning that housed them. There hadn't been any sign of dragons since the one attacked Whiterun, and without magical teleportation systems set up, news of any others would likely travel slowly.

“Don't know,” Mehra replied. “There's likely to be more. The awakening of a Dragonborn means that the dragons – probably all of them – are back.” Whatever 'all of them' meant anyway. There could be any number of the damned things.

She wiggled her toes in her boots, exhaling in frustration when they throbbed in response. While she was aware of the cultural difference in the Nord's acceptance of magic, Mehra found the extent to which they were opposed to magic to be a hindrance.

“Travel weary?” Aela asked.

Mehra nodded. “Skyrim is truly beautiful,” she said, “but –”

“But?”

She sighed and rested her chin in her hands. “But there is no teleportation system. In Morrowind, there was at least a mark at every temple location in every city.” And the defunct Mages Guild had a network of marks as well. Being a member of the guild was worth it for the transport alone. But the guild was destroyed, along with so many other things from her past.

“Seems useful,” Aela said. “I imagine I'd prefer walking, but it would help with news and travelers on dangerous roads. Do you know how it works?”

Mehra shook her head. She didn't even remember how a mark and recall spell went. There was a magic point and a receiver, but she couldn't remember the in-between.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make it sound as if I look down on –”

“I was not offended in the least,” Aela shrugged.

Out of the corner of her eye, Mehra saw Skjor step outside behind her. “New Blood!” he called. “Been looking for you.”

Mehra stood and turned to face him. “What do you need?”

“Last week, a scholar came to us,” he replied. “Seems that he found another fragment of Wuuthrad, Ysgramor's axe. I don't know if it's accurate or not, but our honor as Companions demands that we have to follow the lead.”

“If you want me to help look for it,” Mehra said, “I would be honored.”

Skjor crossed his arms. “That's a good attitude to have. If you find it, we will induct you as a Companion, officially. Farkas will be your shield-companion on this excursion. Don't mess up, and don't get him killed.”

Mehra thought she was a Companion already, but she wasn't about to start asking questions. She didn't want them to think she felt self-important. Instead, she got out of her chair and searched for Farkas.

Mehra found her shield-companion inside Jorrvaskr, sitting near the front door as if he were waiting for her. When she approached him, he stood, grabbing a bag by his feet.

"I hope you've readied yourself,” he said.

"Yes. I am ready to prove my worth to the Companions.”

That seemed good enough for him. Farkas grunted and led her outside. She followed him, and they exited the city. Admittedly, Mehra wasn't used to following. She followed orders, yes, but it was somewhat nice to not know her destination and simply come along for the journey.

They continued quietly until the destroyed watchtower came into view. Farkas took a long look at the smoldering ruins and let out a low whistle. “That dragon did this?” he asked.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“And you killed it,” Farkas mused. “Guess that makes you tough.”

“The guards and Irileth were there too,” she said. “Wasn't all me.”

The dragon's bones lay in the middle of the road, and Farkas peered at the creature's remains in wonder.

“I know she's the Jarl's age, but Irileth's pretty,” he chuckled. “I like a fiery woman.”

Farkas stood and took one last look at the dragon before continuing down the road that lead away from the town.

“If you like her,” Mehra said, “I could put a good word in for you. I'm sure I'll see her again soon.”

The Companion shook his head. “Nah, it's just a fancy. I'm sure she'd think I was just a kid.”

They continued in silence, with Farkas sending obvious glances her way. Mehra tried her best to ignore it, until they reached a fork in the road just past destroyed house.

“Why do you keep looking back at me?”

Farkas stopped in his tracks and looked down at her, his face turning red. “How old are you?”

“Older than Irileth.”

“Oh.”

“I still respect your position as part of the Circle,” Mehra said, “Regardless of your age.”

Farkas shrugged, nodded, and continued to lead her to their destination. As clouds gathered overhead, Mehra wondered what Farkas was thinking, asking her such a question. Either he thought of her as he did Irileth, or felt strange asking her age. If it was the former, then they had a problem. If it wasn't, then she could make quite an ass of herself by assuming.

Mehra was good at liars and politics, but blushing Nord warriors tended to baffle her entirely. Letting it go and following him to the rumored location of the shard seemed much wiser.

A flying shadow passed over the ground, and Mehra's spell hand twitched, flames coming to life at her fingertips. Her traveling companion looked to the sky and pointed at the bird that glided above them.

“Just a hawk, new-blood,” Farkas laughed. “Didja think it was a dragon?”

“Yes,” she lied. Mehra's instinct told her that it was a cliff racer. The damned things infested Vvardenfell; they loved the high peaks of the mountain and scattered ruins. A strong and well-placed fireball could blast them out of the sky, but she wasn't sure if her fireball would be strong enough for a one hit kill.

“So, what's this about being the Dragonborn?” Farkas asked. “The Greybeards summoned you, right?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “Apparently I am a Dragonborn. They want me to go up to Ustengrav to get a relic of their order for them.”

Farkas raised a calloused hand to scratch his head. “Yeah, Ustengrav. I think I've heard of it but I can't remember where. May want to ask my brother about that.”

They came to a short, grassy hill with worn stone markers encircling it, and Farkas stopped in front of it. Clouds rolled in overhead, and Mehra was grateful that Skjor sought her out so early in the morning; with all the walking they did, they likely wouldn't make it back to Jorrvaskr until well after dark.

“Now there's probably draugr in there,” Farkas said.

“Saw those in Bleak Falls Barrow,” Mehra offered.

“Bleak Falls? You raided that place?”

Mehra nodded. “Was it profane to do so?”

“Nah, there's always folks sneaking into those places,” he said. “Some might take exception to an elf wandering in, but that's plain silly. We've all got red blood, right?”

“Exactly.”

They approached the top of the dome, and Mehra peered down at the entrance to the crypt. A stone spiral staircase led down to a large, stone door. And in front of the door was a lit brazier.

“Did the scholar mention people in this place?” Mehra whispered. She pointed at the fire below.

Farkas shook his head and frowned. Together, they crept down the stairs and into the crypt.

The sight that greeted them confirmed her suspicions; the entire place was well lit. Mehra slid her sword from her scabbard as quietly as she could and followed Farkas further down to a room.

Here, there were signs of a struggle, as well as a hastily set-up camp. A lamp rested on top of the table in the center of the room. Benches sat in various spots, with obvious trails of dust on the floor where they had been dragged. Broken pottery, an overturned brazier, and a dead draugr lay in the far corner.

Mehra briefly considered the chest next to the table, then thought better of it; they didn't know if the people inside the crypt were hostile, and stealing wouldn't set them off on the right foot. Leaving it behind, they pressed onward.

Their path took them through winding, partially lit hallways and crypts, down to a crypt with dead branches covering the floor. Much to her dismay, Farkas plowed through the obvious noise trap, alerting draugr and gods knew what else to their presence.

The fight didn't take much; Mehra lit the branches on fire, which spread to the highly flammable embalming fluid inside the draugr. The commotion they made was sure to have alerted whomever set up camp in the crypt.

Mehra cringed as Farkas opened the door at the end of the crypt without caution. She knew that the Companions were warriors first, but a little bit of stealth was always wise.

The path led downward still, until they reached a large, open room. A crack in the ceiling provided cloudy light from above, allowing moss to grow on a raised area in the center. Mehra watched as Farkas crouched in front of the moss, examining it for signs of others.

“Yeah, there's a few people in here,” he said. “Lots of boot marks. Looks like a dead end, though. Try to see if you can find a way forward.”

Mehra glanced at the far end of the room and saw a well-lit room with a pull chain inside. She walked up to the room, peered in, and took a step back.

"This is a trap,” she announced.

Farkas lifted his head. “But there is a chain in there. Go ahead and pull it and see what happens. It could open the next room.”

Mehra sighed. “It's. A. Trap.”

"Just try it,” he shrugged. “If it is, I'll get you out."

Exhaling, Mehra stepped into the small room and pulled the lever. Sure enough, the gate behind her crashed to the floor.

“You were right,” Farkas laughed. “But I was too. The next door is open. Hang tight, I'll get you –”

"We knew you'd be here Companion!"

Mehra watched in horror as a group of armed fighters ran into the room, their swords drawn.

"Which one is that, anyway?" one of them asked.

"Doesn't matter,” the leader said. “He's wearing the armor. He dies."

"Killing him will be an excellent story," the orc said.

Farkas tilted his head to the side. He still hadn't drawn his weapon. "None of you are leaving here alive,” he shrugged.

He hunched over, a black mist forming around him. In the next second, Farkas was gone, and in his place, a werewolf stood. The thugs shouted and charged, but they were no match to the superior claws and strength of the werewolf. With a swipe of his claw, a pair of the attackers flew across the room, landing with a sickening crunch. The final three charged at once, meeting similar bloody fates at the tips of the werewolf's teeth and claws.

As soon as the attackers were dead, Farkas disappeared, and the metal door to her cage rolled back up into the ceiling. Mehra heard the slap of bare feet approaching her across the stone floors.

"I hope I didn't scare you,” Farkas called.

Mehra glanced to her side, grabbed a pouch of gold on a nearby table, and dumped it into her bag.

"Nope,” she shrugged, “was wondering why you smelled like wet dog.”

She left the room to see a completely naked Farkas waiting for her in the next room.

"Well, it's a blessing to some of us,” he said. “Others aren't as happy about it.”

"Certainly so." Lycanthropy tied the werewolf to Hircine; it was easy to see why one wouldn't be pleased with it.

Farkas looked down at the pieces of his armor and shook his head. “Uh, I've got to get this back on somehow. Help me salvage some straps from these other folks, would ya?”

“Sure thing.”

Mehra searched for the right straps, and they were quickly able to piece his armor back together relatively well. Farkas crouched behind his pack and dug out a pair of pants and a shirt.

“Did you plan on transforming?” Mehra asked.

“Nah,” he sighed. “But I had a sense about this one. Felt like trouble. I trust my instincts.”

He tugged the pants on and laced them up, then pulled the shirt over his head. “I've got instincts about you, too.”

“Oh?”

“You, I like. I can trust you.” He began to fasten his armor with the new straps.

“I hope to honor your trust,” Mehra said.

It didn't make sense why anyone would purposefully set up a trap for the Companions. Weren't they supposed to be well-respected heroes of Skyrim?

"Farkas, who are these people?"

"Silver Hand,” he replied. “Werewolf hunters. Must have caught wind of our secret."

Mehra frowned. If a group of werewolf hunters knew about some of the Companions being werewolves, then the group was in danger. A quick glance down at one of the dead bodies told her that they carried silver weapons. She'd have to make sure she kept Farkas safe. A small cut from one of those blades could make him bleed out.

“Let me in front,” Mehra murmured. “Those silver blades are dangerous.”

Farkas looked like he was about to protest, but stopped. “I trust you to guard me, sister,” he said.

With that, they made their way further into the crypt. They continued onward without too many problems, aside from the draugr and occasional Silver Hand member. That was, until after they fought the biggest spiders she'd ever seen.

After the fight, Farkas appeared shaken.

“Don't like spiders, Farkas?”

“No,” he mumbled. “Anything but spiders. I wouldn't mind a dragon even.”

She figured this was fair. After all, she had a fear of her own, from her times adventuring long ago. The corprus stalkers had to have been the worst; one couldn't tell if they were friend or foe until they came close. Then, when the sores and white eyes were visible, she knew. At least the heavily infected corprus victims were easy to distinguish and looked like monsters.

“Those spiders sure were huge,” she admitted. “But we got them.”

The spiders put a damper on the mood, and the pair traveled in silence all the way to the deepest corners of the crypt. A large, ebony door stood in front of what Mehra hoped was the last section. Pushing it open, Mehra let out a deep sigh as she saw the room in front of them.

The large, vaulted ceilings and crypts lining the walls meant that they were at the end. Mehra blinked and stared at the back of the room. Was that another wall with a shout on it?

Abandoning caution, Mehra jogged between the rows of coffins and climbed the stairs to the top of the pedestal. As she approached the wall, her vision tunneled, focusing on a single word chiseled into the stone. Mehra's heart raced; this word was important. She reached out and ran her fingers over the deep grooves in the rock.

This word was powerful. She knew that she needed to absorb a dragon soul in order to understand the word better, and she had a strong desire to unlock its secrets.

“Huh, never seen that before,” Farkas said, “What's it feel like?”

Mehra blinked and tried to gather her thoughts. How could she describe it? Out of all the words on the stone, her mind sought out the single word that held the power. And from there, it just transferred itself into her mind.

“It feels like when you hunt,” she replied. “Where you see what you're going to go after, and you focus on that thing only. At least, that's how it is when you see the right word out of the dozen or so on the wall.”

“What about all that glowing?”

“I wish I had an answer for that,” she said. Mehra stared at the wall, trying to think of how to put it into words. Finally, she gave up. “It's knowing. Just, knowing. The word comes in, and I'm suddenly aware of it. But I need to absorb a dragon's soul to understand what it means.”

Farkas crossed his arms and tilted his head to the side. “Makes no sense.”

“I agree.”

He grinned and turned to look around. There, right behind them, was a metal shard on top of a pressure plate. Farkas started and peered down at it. "Well, here's the fragment."

“Wait a minute, I think –”

Farkas grabbed the shard before she could finish her sentence. The pressure plate clicked as it came up and Mehra sprawled out on the floor as quickly as she could.

“What, you thought it was a trap?” Farkas asked. “These are everywhere. Doesn't mean it's a trap. And even if it was, half of them are so old that they don't work anymore.”

Mehra released the breath she'd been holding and flopped over onto the dusty stone floor. Groaning, she glanced up at Farkas. “It was another obvious trap.”

One would think that a werewolf had the instincts to know when something was a trap or not, but Farkas seemed like the type to muscle his way in.

A crash sounded at the far end of the room. Mehra leaped to her feet and drew her sword. As Farkas charged forward to fight the released draugr, Mehra charged up a fire spell.

“I told you it was a trap!”

“We'll kill em all!” Farkas shouted.

Mehra charged in as well, her sword drawn. Flames erupted from her hand and lit up a nearby draugr as Farkas beheaded another. She hacked and slashed, but the damned things kept coming, and they were about to be overrun soon.

A pair of draugr came after her at once, just as the heavy lid to a nearby sarcophagus shook. Mehra dashed away with the undead chasing after her. If she timed it right –

The lid fell in front of her, completely missing the draugr behind her and unleashing another in her face. Shouting, Mehra held her spell hand up and threw whatever she could at them.

Flames erupted in a circle around her, incinerating everything in their path. To her shock, the attacking draugr turned to charcoal instantly.

Panting, Mehra wheeled around to watch as the final sarcophagus opened up. Farkas charged in as soon as the draugr was within sight. With a swing of his blade, the undead creature fell to the ground.

Farkas gave her a nod, and they looked around the room one more time, just to make sure that the threat was over. After looking, they met in the center again.

“I think we killed every last one of them,” Mehra said, her heart hammering in her chest.

“Looks that way, yeah,” Farkas agreed. “You're a quick fighter. A bit more practice and some meat on those bones, and I have no doubt you'll do us proud.” He reached down with a huge, dirty hand and ruffled her hair.

If he had any idea who she was, he wouldn't dare do such a thing. But Mehra was so far removed from her titles – willingly so – that it didn't bother her in the least.

Farkas led her up the stairs on the side of the room and pulled a nearby chain to open a secret door in the side of the rock wall. The cramped dirt path here wound upward, and Mehra wondered where it led. Farkas didn't seem concerned; his sword was already tucked onto his back.

As the tunnel grew darker, Mehra prepared to cast a candlelight spell. There was no sense in walking in the dark, and she wasn't certain if Farkas could see better than she in low lighting due to his lycanthropy. She channeled her magicka and moved her hand in the right way, but after a few sparks, the spell failed. Huffing, she tried again, only to fail once more. Mehra bit her lip as a wave of dizziness hit her; she was out of reserves from her earlier fire spells. She couldn't cast candlelight even if her life depended on it.

“I'll tell ya,” Farkas chuckled, “those fire spells you used earlier today were right on. Those draugr lit up like torches. We don't do magic in the Companions, but you've got some good balance to your fight.”

“I did my best.” Mehra swallowed and glanced down at her shaking hand. The spell that she cast was much too powerful for her; she was out of practice. And her failure at candlelight was incredibly embarrassing. Hopefully, Farkas wouldn't know what she attempted to do.

Mehra glanced around Farkas to see light coming from cracks around another secret door. When he pulled the chain off to the side, the door slid down.

They stepped into the first room they encountered within the crypt and Mehra's jaw dropped.

“Is this a common thing, here?”

“Yeah,” Farkas smiled. “It saves a lot of backtracking, doesn't it?”

Mehra nodded mutely and followed him toward the entrance to the cairn. Apparently, secret shortcuts out of crypts was fine, but gods forbid they put in some magical waypoints for recall purposes. If Mehra stayed in Skyrim long enough, and if she ever figured out how to get it to work, she'd travel the country setting them up herself.

Farkas pushed the main crypt door open and a gust of wet air blew in. Apparently, it decided to rain while they were inside.

“Well, we can either go on ahead,” he said, “or we can stay here with our friends.” He nodded back in the direction of the cairn and its dozens of slain enemies.

“It's just a mist out there anyway,” she shrugged. “So long as it's not too cold, it'll be fine.”

Farkas laughed and stepped out into the rain. He looked back at her and smiled. “It ain't cold either,” he said.

Mehra would be the judge of at; his Nord blood ensured that his body was comfortable at much colder temperatures than hers. She stuck a hand out into the rain and shrugged when it it her skin.

“Feels like spring rains in Daggerfall,” she said.

She joined Farkas, and together, they trudged their way up the slick stairs of the cairn and back down the grassy mound surrounding it.

“It'll probably slow down anyway,” he said. “Free washing, too.” Farkas scrubbed the dirt from his face that had collected from the cairn.

They continued onward in the misty rain for a few hours, until they reached the wachtower. The skies chose that moment to open up and Farkas laughed.

“Now's the time where my brother would joke about leaving the shard in the barrow,” he said.

Mehra stared at his back with wide eyes. “You do have the shard, right?”

Farkas fished through his pouch and turned around. He grinned at her as he walked backwards. Withdrawing the dark shard from his bag, he waved it in the air. “Got it right here.”

“I'm glad,” she sighed. “Even joking about the idea of leaving it made me a little nervous.”

Farkas laughed and turned around. They sloshed their way up the road, through the gate to Whiterun, and finally – mercifully – up the stairs to Jorrvaskr. Farkas threw the door open and shouted in triumph.

“You have the fragment?” Skjor called.

“Damn right, we do!” Farkas replied.

A group of shouts rose up from the table at the sound of this news.

Mehra shuffled inside, weary and waterlogged. The Companions all sat at the table, having their evening meal. Without bothering to dry off, Farkas made his way to the table and pulled up a chair. Was she expected to do likewise? She was hungry, but she wanted to get out of her soaked clothing first.

At the farthest end of the table, Tilma sat. She took in Mehra's appearance and excused herself quickly. “Come downstairs, dear,” she said. “Let me help you get dry.”

Ria scooted her chair back and stood. “I'll help you as well.”

Mehra followed them downstairs and into the room that housed the lower-ranked members. Ria set about helping her remove her armor – a blessing, as her hands shook from the cold – while Tilma scurried off down the hall to grab towels.

Between the two of them, they made quick work of the sopping armor, just as Tilma returned with a bundle of linens. Mehra patted herself dry as fast as she possibly could.

Aela appeared in the doorway and gave them a nod in greeting.

“I don't think my shirt's going to fit you,” Ria murmured, “but let's try. I'm the second smallest woman here, next to you.” She fished around in the chest by the foot of her bed and withdrew a linen shirt and pants.

The Jail sentence definitely took its toll. It took her captors months to find out that they had to cook the tiny meat portions they provided her with. Of course, her cursing and tantrums over the food for the first hundred years didn't help matters.

Gods, did she ever have an unnecessary amount of anger bottled up inside her back then.

Without a word on the matter, she received the clothing from Ria and sighed as she looked down at her bony frame. “Well, it's what I'm working with right now,” she said.

“Everything will be fine,” Aela said. “Just eat well and fight hard. With what Farkas is saying up there, it sounds like you gave those bandits and draugr hell.”

“I'll sneak you an extra portion of meat tonight,” Tilma whispered. She bent over, grabbed the pile of dripping leathers, and left the room.

Mehra tugged the shirt over her head and pulled the pants up, cinching them as tightly as she could. She didn't have the heart to tell them that she looked worse not too long ago. Her survival in the Akaviri prison must have been by divine influence; there was no other acceptable answer. Mehra didn't know to which deity she owed her allegiance, but she assumed Azura by default.

She had always been slim, yes, but Mehra had decent muscle from her time fighting her way across Vvardenfell. It was doubtful that she would ever be the same; Mehra decided that she didn't need to be the best warrior or mage again. She just wanted to fight and cast well enough to protect herself and be done with it.

“Well, when you're ready, come upstairs for judgment,” Aela nodded. “Just wear what you've got.” With that, she left to head upstairs.

As soon as she was gone, Ria stepped forward and enveloped her in a tight hug. “Sounds like you're being inducted,” she said, “I can call you my sister.”

Mehra nodded and followed her back up to the great hall. She felt guilty; she joined this group of fighters for a bed and some quick gold, but it ended up being a lot more than she bargained for. And even though Kodlak said that some joined to make their fortune, the idea didn't sit well with her.

Well, it wasn't as if she'd be joining the Circle anytime soon. There were four others that outranked her, and they would certainly be promoted before anyone thought of promoting her.

With that in mind, Mehra stepped down the stairs, where all the Companions stood. As she stepped forward, Farkas jogged over to stand by her side. Together, they approached the Companions and their Harbinger.

They began the induction, and while Kodlak and Farkas' speeches were almost certainly a script, each word was spoken with sincerity. Farkas stood to attest to her valor, and the Circle agreed on her induction without hesitation.

Then, that was the end of it. Everyone broke off. Some congratulated her; others went back to their dinner. When the talking died down and Mehra was alone, Kodlak pulled her aside to the far corner of the hall for a talk.

"Well girl, you're one of us now,” he said. But he had a serious look on his face that made her feel like she ought to let him know what happened that day in her own words.

“Farkas is a werewolf,” she murmured. “Are you all werewolves?”

"The Circle are all werewolves,” Kodlak replied. “Though you know this much before you typically would. And you're Dragonborn?”

Mehra tugged the collar of the loose shirt in an attempt to keep it from falling off of her shoulder. “I think everyone's going to know I'm Dragonborn soon, whether I like it or not.”

“And us?”

“No,” Mehra frowned. “Lycanthropy is a deeply personal secret. If you harm nobody, then you are not an abomination. It's as simple as that.”

Kodlak smiled at her. “I wish others had that attitude.”

He must have heard about the Silver Hand from Farkas. And though she found him to be a capable fighter and trusted his heart, Mehra wasn't quite sure about Farkas' skills when it came to insight. “I don't want to overstep my bounds but –”

“Speak your mind, Companion.”

Mehra swallowed. This was none of her business, but she felt compelled to share her thoughts on the matter.

“This Silver Hand business is dangerous,” she said. “The fragment of Wuuthrad was a trap. If they had more of their forces at the trap point, they would have killed Farkas.”

“I agree,” Kodlak said. “The Circle will have to discuss this in detail.”

He put his hand on her shoulder and led her toward the table. "But now is not the time to talk of these things. Let us celebrate this evening! In the morning, go to Eorlund and see if you can get a better weapon than that steel blade."

Mehra nodded and followed him to sit down at the mead hall's great table. The borrowed tunic slid off the side of her shoulder once again, and Mehra tugged it back up in frustration.

“Tell us about your fight with the dragon,” Farkas said.

Mehra tilted her head to the side. Hadn't she told him already? But there was a twinkling in his eyes, and she realized that he wanted her to recount it, not for his benefit, but so the Companions could hear of her triumph.

So she recounted her tale in between bites of food, leaving out the feeling intense ineptitude she felt throughout the entire fight. Mehra did make it a point to stress that the guards and Irileth fought nobly, despite the dragon's fierceness.

“I'm sure it was more glorious than that!” Skjor laughed.

“Dragons are terrifying,” Mehra said. “Especially the dragon in Helgen. He looked like he was made of ebony, and his eyes glowed red.”

“How do you know that dragon was male?” Ria asked.

“Because only men cause that much trouble,” Aela snickered. She turned to Farkas and Vilkas and narrowed her eyes. “Right, boys?”

Njada cackled, and the twins groaned in unison.

“I got to see her use a dragon shout,” Farkas said. “Fire came right from her and turned some draugr to ash.”

Mehra shrank down in her seat. “That was a spell,” she squeaked.

“Really? Never seen one quite like it,” Farkas said.

She hadn't either, at least, not in a very long time. Mehra couldn't duplicate that particular casting of the spell off the top of her head; at the time, it was pure reflex. Years of disuse made her forget the majority of her abilities, including levitation.

Aside from her responsibilities to the Greybeards, and a few odd jobs for the Companions, Mehra didn't see the need for such things anymore. She didn't need people stepping out of her way in fear or awe as she walked the streets. Maybe she was better off living a simple life.

Mehra thought on these things as the Companions' conversation dwindled down, until the fire in the great hall died down to embers, and the chill in her body that dinner held off set in. Wearily, she excused herself, scraped her chair back, and headed downstairs.

Mehra plopped onto her bed without saying a word to the other Companions in the room. She was exhausted. Her wet hair had to dry, however, and it wouldn't if it stayed tied up in a ball all night. Shaking hands reached up and loosened the leather tie that bound her hair. Slowly, the sopping mess unwound from itself and fell against her back with a cold, damp plop.

Mehra closed her eyes. She didn't want to finger-comb it when it was so cold and wet. A worn blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and with it, a pair of tanned arms.

“You look like you're freezing,” Ria said.

Mehra nodded. She couldn't stop her teeth from chattering.

“Pathetic,” Njada scowled. “Can't take a little bit of cold.”

Ria bit her lip and rubbed Mehra's back. “Stop being mean, Njada,” she murmured.

“What was that?”

Ria turned her head. “I said, stop being mean.”

“Who's gonna make me?”

“You always do this! You always pick on people!”

“This wimp can't even handle a little cold! I can't believe you're defending her.”

Ria stood up and stomped her foot. “Then let's see which of you is better at being lit on fire!”

Athis sat in his corner, fighting the urge to laugh, while Torvar frowned and took another drink from his bottle.

“Ria, it's okay,” Mehra sighed. “Let her say whatever she wants.”

Knowing that her words had no effect on their intended victim, Njada scowled and left the room. Ria sat down next to her, and shook her head. “It's not right. She's nasty to all of us and sucks up to the Circle. And she has no right to call you a wimp after the things Farkas said you can do!”

Mehra shrugged. “Been called worse.”

“Like what?”

“'Mehra, your skin's so dark that you look like a dremora,” she replied, “no wonder your parents didn't want you.' 'You're so dark you look burnt.' 'Nobody wants to adopt an ash-baby.' 'That curse is strong in this one; look how dark she is.' That sort of thing.”

Torvar swore and shook his head. “Kids are terrible.”

“Well they had to have learned it from somewhere,” Athis grumbled. He turned to Mehra. “Where did you grow up?”

“Orphanage in Daggerfall,” Mehra said. “Was left on the doorstep naked with a piece of paper with my name on it tossed over me. That's just how it goes for some folks.”

“Doesn't make it right,” Torvar grumbled. He took another swig of his ale.

Mehra nodded in agreement, though the resentment she had for her birth parents, the kids who teased her, and the adults who failed her died long ago. She had nothing to prove to anyone – not to a Mages Guild hall leader, not to House Telvanni, not to the Morag Tong, and not even to herself.

She thought of all the years she wasted making a name for herself and all the resentment from her childhood she bottled up inside. The only thing Mehra ever wanted was to be understood. She closed her eyes and realized that even after what would be considered a longer than average life for a Dunmer, she didn't understand herself. Even with the urgency of the return of the dragons, Mehra didn't feel much motivation to make an attempt at achieving anything.

When she was taken to Helgen, Mehra was certain that she was meant for the grave. So why, then, was she alive?

Mehra knew the answer in her heart. Helgen was a divine trap, as was her journey to Whiterun and facing off with a dragon. Maybe, she ought to just go along with it, and let things happen as the fates saw fit.

“Going to sleep now,” Mehra mumbled. Without preamble, she turned over and curled up in bed.

She'd leave for Ustengrav in the morning, albeit, begrudgingly.

 


	5. Chapter 5

A/n: Thank you everyone for continuing to be so supportive! I'm very excited about this fic and can't wait for you all to read the various twists I have planned :)

 

* * *

 

_Men are but flesh and blood. They know their doom, but not the hour._

_-Uriel Septim VII_

 

* * *

 

4E 201, New Tel Vos

 

He often wondered what happened to the angry orphan girl that he took on as a pupil.

Aryon remembered the last time he saw her. She dropped in unexpectedly, wearing an ancient gauntlet, hammer, and dagger. He didn't have to ask to know that she held Sunder and Keening in her belt. Mehra said goodbye, her face grim. In that moment, when her chin quivered slightly and her eyes moistened, Aryon knew that despite her success, the lonely, scared child in front of him had nobody and nowhere to call home. He suspected that he was the only person who knew what she was about to do.

And Aryon didn't have any words that could comfort her, other than to say that she was doing the right thing. Yes, his gifted pupil held a special place in his heart; she was like the child he never had. But he knew better than to cross certain lines with her. No doubt, she would have slapped away any fatherly affections he sent her way. She was a bitter, violent girl.

He never saw her again after that night.

After that, he heard what she had become through word of mouth – she was the Nerevarine, and destroyed Dagoth Ur at Red Mountain. She ended the blight. She rescued Tamriel from Dagoth Ur's destruction.

Maybe the girl didn't want to come back and deal with her emotions. Mehra was a stunted child, in that regard. Rumors said that she disappeared across the ocean to Akavir, and while Aryon typically didn't take stock in rumors, it sounded like her to run away from anything that could resemble feelings or attachment. Well, if she wanted to return to him at any point, he named his new tower the same as the old one that the Argonians destroyed. She could find him there, at Tel Vos, though the location was different.

After she left, Oblivion gates opened up all over the island. While the Empire abandoned Morrowind, House Telvanni was there to defend their homeland from Oblivion as much as possible. And as Archmagister, it was up to Aryon to lead the assault to close as many gates as possible. Finally, House Telvanni got involved in something bigger than themselves, but it was at a great cost.

The whole thing had been a disaster from the start. The Council found Divayth Fyr and his daughters brutally murdered, most likely by Mehrunes Dagon himself for their refusal to join in his plot. Without Divayth's knowledge of Mehrunes Dagon, they went in nearly blind. Therana, mad as she was, wasn't of any help and succumbed to an early attack. Dratha wanted nothing to do with it, but did her best. Thanks to her, they closed the largest gate on the island, but at the cost of her life. House Telvanni lost their two oldest Councilors during the Oblivion Crisis, and hundreds of brave others. It would take many centuries to rebuild what they lost.

And Neloth? He made preparations to move to Solstheim the entire time, and hobbled around with his cane spreading wards around Sadrith Mora to keep his peace from being disturbed. At least Sadrith Mora had been spared, he supposed. Given his refusal to perform the ritual to regain his youth, Neloth likely would have perished if he fought during the Crisis.

Had Mehra been there, Aryon was certain the outcome would have been more favorable. So many things changed in that time. Even Neloth, as ancient and as grouchy as he was, changed; he wrote back every so often, though it was usually just to appease him. The replies had been less and less, as of late.

Aryon felt it imperative that he remain in contact with the House's oldest remaining Council member, even if Neloth never actually attended the Council. Neloth was a House treasure, of sorts. And for all of his isolationist attitude and 'couldn't care less' faults, Aryon knew better.

He was the only person who knew exactly where Neloth was when Red Mountain erupted. And if more knew, it was entirely possible that the man would become a living saint. Neloth wouldn't want anything to do with that, however. Aryon appreciated that about him; despite his isolationist views and general personality of a mucksponge, he didn't seek out fame.

Interesting how Aryon went from wanting to send Mehra to assassinate Neloth, to eventually appreciating the man. In hindsight, assassinating Neloth would have been a terrible mistake.

Aryon's hand hovered over his quill and parchment. He wished that Neloth would be more involved with the Council, but too much pressure would push him off entirely. With that in mind, he'd wait a while longer for an answer. It wasn't as if time was of the essence.

 

* * *

 

 

4E 201, Middle of Nowhere, Skyrim

 

Shit. The horn wasn't there.

Mehra stared at the ancient pedestal in front of her. Where the horn was supposed to be was a small, folded note. She sighed in exasperation, yanked the note out of the pedestal’s center hand, and unfolded it.

_Dragonborn,_

_I need to speak to you. Urgently._

_Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood, and I'll meet you._

– _A friend_

This wasn't a great way to contact her, but Mehra supposed it was the only way to do it. Maybe they didn't know she was a Companion, and that a message could be dropped off at Jorrvaskr. Maybe, they didn't even know who Mehra was, but knew of a Dragonborn. Either way, they didn't leave their name, and her suspicious side wondered if they did so intentionally to prevent her from having any advantage.

Whatever the case, it was the kind of tactic a fugitive would use.

Mehra tucked the letter into her armor. She didn't want to get involved in this, but she needed the horn.

Figuring she ought to get going, Mehra peered around the pedestal and grinned when she saw an outline of a door in the rock and a pull chain nearby. At least Skyrim had the shortcuts back out of their crypts.

Mehra made her way back to Whiterun, taking the route that the Companions suggested rather than the long, roundabout way the Greybeards suggested. If she was careful, she wouldn't come close to the daedric shrine to Mehrunes Dagon, nor the incredibly dangerous ruins of Labyrinthian.

Vilkas had such a scowl at the notion of her taking the road west, because she would be most of the way to Solitude by the time she made it to Morthal. In his words, it was foolish to go many, many hours out of the way to avoid something one could easily circumvent. There was no road there, but where there wasn't a road, there was a river, and she could follow it to a road.

Also, in Vilkas' own words, she wasn't recommended to take the road north out of Whiterun and straight into the mountains, due to her “delicate and weak nature”.

While he could have chosen his words more carefully, Vilkas was correct. Mehra knew that at the moment, she wasn't capable or equipped enough to endure a hike up a long, snowy road.

She remembered being young and angry, just like Vilkas and Njada. Mehra hoped that they snapped out of it quicker than she had, and in a much less painful way.

Were she younger, her reaction to the letter from 'a friend' would have been much more violent. Instead of throwing a tantrum and stomping her way back to Riverwood without any sleep, Mehra took her time. She walked back through the snow to Morthal, slept in the vacant inn there, and then followed the road south until it met the river. The river allowed for a peaceful stroll east, where it met up with the road that would take her south into Whiterun. She arrived there well after dark, crept her way down to her bunk, and slept until dawn.

Faced with questions in the morning about why she headed to Riverwood, Mehra felt that she had to be as honest as she could. She told the Companions that she had to meet someone who had something important that belonged to the Greybeards.

There were no further questions after that, most likely out of respect for the Greybeards more than her. Regardless, telling the truth worked, and Mehra found herself at the Sleeping Giant Inn hours later.

She put her hand on the doorknob and steeled herself. Even if it turned out to be nothing bad, she had to remember her training from the Morag Tong: be suspicious of others and always know a way out. Mehra breathed deeply to calm herself and opened the door.

A short middle-aged, blond woman greeted her. Presumably, this was the innkeeper that Orgnar said went out when Mehra was there last. If she remembered correctly, the woman's name was Delphine. Her face was familiar, however, and she didn't like the fact that she couldn't place where she'd seen her before. Hiding her distrust, she gave the innkeeper a smile.

“Hello,” Mehra said. “I'd like to rent the attic room.”

Delphine furrowed her brows in confusion. “The attic room? We don't have an attic room, but you can rent the one on the left. Ten gold.”

Mehra placed the gold in the innkeeper's hand, then made her way to the room on the left. Quickly, she took note of the inn's occupants: a few people she had seen around Riverwood, and Orgnar. Her assassin brain worked out possible escape routes and made her wish that she still had her little blade tucked into her gauntlets.

She'd have to fix that and worry about where to find one after she survived this encounter.

Mehra opened the door to the room and glanced back to catch the innkeeper following. They exchanged a hard look; this woman was the one who wrote the letter. Delphine entered the room and closed the door partially.

“So, you're the Dragonborn we've been hearing so much about,” Delphine said. “Here: I think you're looking for this.”

She reached into a satchel around her waist and withdrew an ancient horn – the very one she had been looking for in Ustengrav. Accepting the peace offering and carefully placing it in her bag, Mehra relaxed somewhat.

“Follow me,” the inkeeper said. “We need to talk.”

She led Mehra across the inn, toward another room. As soon as they were in the far bedroom, Delphine closed the door behind them. She made her way over to her wardrobe, opened it, then slid the back panel on it to the right to reveal a secret room.

“Go on in,” she said. “I'll shut it behind us.”

Mehra made her way down the stairs sideways, making sure she kept Delphine within view at all times until she was safely in the room. It was the perfect hiding spot for a fugitive; there were weapons and armor neatly stored where they could be grabbed easily, along with a lit candelabra next to a pile of papers. If she had to leave quickly, Mehra imagined that Delphine would arm herself then light fire to the room to destroy all the evidence.

Delphine stopped at the bar in the center of the room and braced her hands on the counter.

“We can talk here,” Delphine said. “The Greybeards seem to think you're Dragonborn. I hope they're right.”

“I am Dragonborn.”

“Just because the Greybeards say you're Dragonborn doesn't mean you are,” she shrugged, “I just handed you the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. Does that make me Dragonborn, too?”

This woman had a poor attitude. Mehra was certain that the horn didn't work that way, and she knew that Delphine knew this as well.

“The horn's a symbol,” Mehra replied. “You don't have to believe me, but apparently, I'm Dragonborn, Voice and all. So, what do you want with me?”

“I had to take the horn,” she sighed. “I wasn't sure if this was another Thalmor trap or not. But I already gave you the horn as an act of trust. We are not enemies; I just want you to hear me out.”

Each word became increasingly desperate, until the woman was nearly yelling in frustration.

“It's fine,” Mehra said. “I just need clarification. I don't want to harm you.”

“I'm part of a group that has been trying to find you,” she said, “or, someone like you, for a very long time. But I can't just take your word that you're Dragonborn. I need to know I can trust you before I can tell you any more.”

“And I need to know if I can trust you as well,” Mehra replied.

The woman bit her lip in frustration and nodded. “If you don't trust me, then you were foolish to come here.”

Mehra chuckled. That was true. “And the Thalmor are looking for you?”

“We're very old enemies,” she replied. “And I suspect they may be responsible for the return of the dragons.”

“So, why are you looking for a Dragonborn?”

“The only way a dragon can be destroyed permanently is by a Dragonborn devouring its soul,” she replied. “So, can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Good, then you can prove it to me.”

Mehra sighed and glanced around the room. She had been brought into this hideout, only to be told that she wasn't able to be trusted and was doubted at every turn. “So, what's the part you're not telling me?”

"Dragons aren't just coming back, they're coming back to life,” Delphine said. “They were killed off centuries ago by my predecessors. Now something's happening to bring them back to life. And I need you to help me stop it."

“Predecessors?” Mehra crossed her arms and closed her eyes when she realized that exactly what she was dealing with again.

“So, the Blades want me to hunt dragons,” Mehra said. “Is that about right?”

Delphine's eyes widened. “What do you know about the Blades?”

“I know they worked their asses off for Uriel Septim VII,” Mehra replied. “And I think their legacy needs to remain intact as defenders of the Empire. How does that sound?”

“Sounds good to me,” Delphine sighed. “I just need to make sure you're really Dragonborn. We'll talk specifics after then. I've figured out a pattern in how they will be revived. The next one is in Kynesgrove. We're going to go there, and you're going to kill that dragon.”

Delphine spoke in absolutes, as if Mehra had no say in what they would do. And while Mehra had the horn and could walk out, she wouldn't be able to live with herself if she left, especially if Delphine was one of the Blades and the Thalmor were hunting her down.

“Go on upstairs to Orgnar. Tell him to pack a picnic lunch,” Delphine said. “He'll know what that means. I'll change into my gear in the meantime.”

Figuring she ought to just do as she was told, Mehra turned around and made her way back up the stairs, opened the false door, then the wardrobe. She closed both doors behind her, just to be safe. Breathing deeply, Mehra put on a cheerful face and walked over to the bar. She'd have to hide her dissatisfaction for now.

“Orgnar,” she smiled, “Will you please pack a picnic lunch for us?”

The barkeep looked up from his cleaning, returned her smile, and hung up his towel. “Sure thing,” he replied. “So, what's new?”

He grabbed a bag and began to pack it with various things they'd need for their journey.

“Well,” she replied, “I was officially inducted as member of the Companions.”

Orgnar stopped his packing and gave her a perplexed look. “No kidding?”

“Nope. I'm entirely serious. Got Skyforge steel to prove it.”

He broke out into a broad grin. “Well, ain't that something. When you get famous one day, remember us common folk here in Riverwood.”

Orgnar finished packing the bag just as Delphine emerged from her room dressed in leather armor. Her stomach churned at the thought of becoming famous again, but Mehra swallowed the feeling and told herself to take everything one step at a time.

Delphine took the bag from Orgnar, thanked him, and led Mehra outside and down the road. She set a quick pace, leading her down the winding road toward Whiterun. Mehra wasn't quite sure where Kynesgrove was located, but Delphine explained their path as they went.

They had to travel north, then east to get to Kynesgrove; the Throat of the World and the mountains around it forced them to take a roundabout way.

Delphine continued at the same brutal pace with barely any effort while Mehra lagged behind, her heart hammering. Mehra couldn't take it. Gasping, she slowed to a stop and put her hands on her knees. The fugitive in front of her stopped and backtracked with a frown on her face.

“You can't be serious,” Delphine sighed.

Mehra nodded and stood up, sweat pouring down her face.

“There's,” she panted, “there's a reason.”

Delphine appeared unimpressed. Mehra took a sip from the waterskin tied to her waist.

“We have to get there as soon as possible,” Delphine insisted. “Better to slow down a little, though. I don't want you to get yourself killed before we even get there.”

Mehra nodded and continued to walk down the road at a slower pace. Eventually, they found a speed that worked for both Delphine's urgency and Mehra's lack of endurance. They continued, going past Whiterun by mid-day. As they turned right at the main crossing, Delphine grabbed a potion out of her bag and handed it to her.

“Here,” she said. “We're not stopping anywhere. Drink up.”

Mehra didn't share her sense of urgency, but drank the potion anyway. It wasn't worth arguing over. The potion took effect immediately, easing her sore feet and refreshing her energy. She wasn't one for stamina potion benders, but when time was of the essence, it was acceptable enough.

“I hope you don't do that very often,” Mehra said. “You can get addicted to it, and then, your brain will go insane from not sleeping, even if you've got no fatigue.”

Delphine looked at her and scoffed. “I'm not an idiot. This is just important for right now.”

Mehra held her hands up in defense, opting to continue on in silence. The woman was unnecessarily intense, but she supposed that being a fugitive from one of the most hated groups of the past century would give anyone paranoia. Mehra didn't want trouble; she just wanted to make sure that Delphine knew what the potions could potentially do. Some didn't.

They wound their way around the huge mountain, the road taking them parallel to the White River. On their way they passed a fort of bandits and were forced to take them out. Mehra fought with a mix of sword, spell, and shout, and even though Delphine was somewhat impressed, the shout wasn't enough to convince her. Ulfric Stormcloak knew some shouts, apparently.

Mehra winced at this knowledge. The Greybeards taught dragon tongue to Ulfric, and he used it to make war. Apparently, the man learned nothing of the Way of the Voice.

After they were certain no more bandits were left, Delphine handed Mehra another potion and downed one herself.

“We may both end up dead,” Delphine said, “but at least it gets me out of Riverwood. I don't really think I'm cut out for the quiet life.”

“I didn't mind it so much,” Mehra frowned. “I was beginning to enjoy it, actually. Then I got dragged into a big mess I wanted no part of.”

Delphine had nothing to say to this. Their journey passed in silence, until the sun began to set and they arrived at the outskirts of a depressing, stone city. Delphine told her the city was Windhelm, and if she knew what was good for her, she'd stay out of it. Windhelm was the capitol of the rebellion; apparently, they didn't take too kindly to Dunmer.

Mehra wondered if Ralof was there, or if he'd been sent back out to the battlefield. Without a doubt, Ulfric had to be in the city.

The road took them toward the south, until they walked in the dark. Delphine pulled another pair of potions out of her pack; Mehra knew what to do and downed the potion without a word. Thankfully, the road was open and the skies were clear, providing enough moonlight that they could travel safely without a torch or spell.

Eventually, they saw a tavern, with a crowd of people nervously huddled outside. A woman broke off from them and jogged over, her eyes wide in terror.

“You picked a bad time to visit, travelers,” she said. “There's a dragon that was flying over the burial mound next to town.”

Delphine swore and took off as fast as she could. Frustrated, Mehra followed close behind, running uphill until the trees thinned. Delphine dropped to a crouch next to a rock, turned back to Mehra, and made a motion for her to get there quickly and quietly.

She heard the dragon flapping its wings long before she saw it. Mehra crept up the hill, almost certain that the dragon would know they were there, regardless of how quietly they went. When reached the rock that Delphine hid behind, she froze in terror.

It was the dragon from Helgen.

The dragon hovered over the burial mound. Each flap of his wings sent a gust of air around the clearing, stirring up dust and dislodging pine needles from the nearby trees. As he craned his neck at the mound, the dragon began to glow.

He spoke, his deep, ancient voice causing Mehra's stomach to lurch in fear. Mehra flattened herself against the rock as the ground began to tremble. Something was being unearthed, just on the other side of the rock.

Then, there were two voices, and Mehra desperately wished that Delphine had been wrong. Looking up, Mehra realized that from where the dragon was, it knew they were there. She closed her eyes and swore. Perhaps, it was better to show herself, rather than get squished behind a rock.

Mehra and Delphine exchanged a nod, then together, they stepped out from behind the rock and back onto the path.

The Helgen dragon turned his red eyes to Mehra and spoke in his ancient tongue. She didn't understand a word he said, but she had the distinct feeling that whatever it was, it was impolite at best. The dragon paused, then tilted his head to the side.

“You do not even know our tongue, do you?” he rumbled. “Such arrogance, to take the name of Dovah.”

Mehra swallowed the lump in her throat. She had to at least act confident. “Well, I can't speak the language if nobody teaches it to me,” she replied, “so that's not entirely fair.”

He stared at her and chuckled.

“And um,” Mehra mumbled, “I have no say in what other people name me.”

Both dragons exchanged a look that made her wonder what they were thinking. Finally, the dragon from Helgen said something to the dragon he resurrected, then pushed off from the ground.

The remaining dragon turned to them and took in a deep breath.

Mehra wheeled around to glare at Delphine. “This is all your fault,” she hissed.

Delphine didn't have time to protest this as the dragon belched fire at them. They dodged in opposite directions, weapons drawn. Mehra dodged tooth, claw, and tail as she ran around the dragon, inflicting wounds wherever she could with her blade.

Irritated by her needling, the dragon took off to the sky. To her right, Delphine drew her bow and fired arrows at the dragon as quickly as she could, hitting it each time.

Mehra sucked in a breath. Time for an ice spike.

Coldness ran down her arm, concentrating at her palm. Mehra imagined the coldness as a projectile in her hand and slowly, the weapon took form. Her eyes followed the dragon, waiting until he was still enough that she couldn't miss.

The damned thing wouldn't hold still enough. Frustrated, Mehra used the power of the Voice, staggered the dragon in mid-air, and loosed her ice spike.

It roared as the spike embedded into its stomach and forced it to land. Mehra rushed in with her sword while Delphine continued to fire arrows at the dragon.

She leaped onto the back of its head and drew her sword across its throat. With a scream, it flung her off, but it was too late. Mehra looked up from the dirt to see the dragon shudder as it collapsed and breathed its last.

She stayed motionless while the dragon's soul poured into her, revealing the word that she saw in Dustman's Cairn.

Yol. Fire. That would be useful.

Catching her breath, Mehra stumbled to her feet and made her way over to the dragon's remains. Between its massive ribs lay an ancient, rusted helm, a few pieces of gold, a pair of sparkling gems, and several of Delphine's arrows. As the Blade-agent jogged forward, Mehra pocketed the valuable items, then held up an intact arrow.

“Here's your arrows,” Mehra drawled. “Probably can reuse them.”

“Incredible,” Delphine awed.

“Well, they're just steel,” she replied. “They're nice arrows but nothing to –”

“Why aren't you taking this seriously?”

Mehra slumped her shoulders and stared down at the ground. “Just allow me to delude myself for a while longer,” she mumbled. She tossed the arrow to the side.

Delphine grabbed her arm, led her to the stairs of the dragon's burial mound, and made her sit. Sighing, she plopped down next to Mehra.

“Talk.”

What was there to talk about? If Delphine was correct, then Mehra was the only one who could make sure that dragons stayed dead after they were defeated. How many dragons were there, anyway?

“Fine,” Delphine said. “I'll talk then. I believe you, now. I didn't like being suspicious of you because part of me knew. But I've been on the run from the Thalmor since the Blades were forced to disband. One mistake, and it's over for me.”

Mehra nodded.

“I'm the Grandmaster of the Blades,” she continued. “The Blades have been looking for a Dragonborn to guide and protect for the past two hundred years.”

And the Ashlanders searched for their Nerevarine for thousands of years. Everyone searched for someone to take care of their problems for them. As if one person could do so much, anyway. A hero could delay the inevitable, but never fully ensure that everything would stay the same. Despite everything she did, her people befell a terrible fate.

And, given recent events, it was quite certain that despite everything Erich Heartfire did for the Empire, it would befall a similar fate.

“Dragons are back,” Delphine sighed. “We've got to make sure we find out what's going on, and who sent them. I think the Thalmor might be behind it.”

Mehra closed her eyes and nodded again, though she didn't think the Thalmor were involved in the slightest. Briefly, she wondered if she ought to just leave Delphine and be done with it, but it would be impossible to lose her.

“How are you certain?” Mehra asked.

“Nothing solid,” Delphine admitted, “but my gut tells me it's true. Think about it; the Empire had Ulfric captured, and then, a dragon attacked and he escaped. Nobody benefits from the war being dragged out other than the Thalmor.”

“How would they bring back dragons?” Disinterested, Mehra admired the gems the dragon swallowed. Maybe she ought to collect gems again.

“That's out of my realm of expertise,” she replied. “Maybe, they found something, similar to the Heart of Lorkhan.”

Mehra's eyes flew open. Was Delphine trying to manipulate her? A glance into the woman's eyes told her that Delphine had no clue who she was. She was simply using a cultural analogy.

“It's an interesting thought,” Mehra admitted. “At the same time, though, do you think the dragons can really be controlled? That black dragon was the one that attacked Helgen. Seems like he could be the boss.”

Delphine swore and stretched her legs out in front of her. “I hate being in the dark like this.”

The sat for a while without saying a word. Mehra wondered if she could leave and go to the nearby tavern to sleep. They weren't in a rush anymore.

She shifted in her seat and looked at the gems again: two blue, one purple. Mehra didn't know what the stones were called, nor did she know the name of their teardrop shape. They were pretty, though.

Yes. She would start collecting gems again. She'd need a place to keep them, though. Even if it was silly and vain, Mehra needed some small measure of pleasure in life. If said thing ended up being shiny rocks, then so be it.

“I've got an idea,” Delphine announced, snapping Mehra out of her thoughts.

“Elenwen, the Thalmor ambassador to Skyrim, has a party every few months,” she said. “We'll sneak you in there. I've got a contact inside the embassy who can help you get a disguise. His name's Malborn. You'll find him in Solitude at the Winking Skeever. I'll send a letter ahead of you, just to make sure he's aware.”

“Tell me about him.”

“He's a wood elf,” Delphine said. “The Thalmor killed his family during one of their Valenwood purges. He's obviously got a reason to not like them. Luckily, they don't know who he is, or he wouldn't be serving drinks at their parties.”

She then went over the details of her plan, telling Mehra that she'd have to sneak through the embassy to find any documents she could. While she was no thief, Mehra had been an assassin in her past life. Without a doubt, those skills would come in handy.

As the plan took shape, Delphine opened her pack and shared the remainder of the food that Orgnar packed for them.

“Are you able to be stealthy?” Delpine asked.

“Yes.”

Anything more than that, Mehra wouldn't say. The woman was paranoid, and Mehra didn't want to indulge her any more than necessary until she was certain that Delphine could be trusted. She did, however, decide that following along with Delphine's plan to infiltrate the embassy was harmless enough – at least, for someone previously involved in Dunmeri politics.

The idea that the Thalmor may have brought the dragons back – unlikely – through some sort of profane ritual made her hair stand on end. She'd check it out, for her sanity as well as Delphine's.

 

* * *

 

It was anticlimactic, giving the horn to the Greybeards. They taught her the final word to the unrelenting force shout, proclaimed her in dragon tongue, and that was it. The proclamation they gave her said that she was now Ysmir, Dragon of the North – a person she remembered well for his acts of barbarism against the Chimeri people. Apparently, Ysmir was a title, now.

Mehra was Nerevar first, if she had to pick a title.

She made her way down from High Hrothgar, not sure what to do. From the bridge that crossed into the town, she saw the barrow on the edge of Ivarstead. Mehra's heart felt heavy; she ought to pay her respects, if Erich was indeed laid to rest in the barrow across from her.

Across the bridge, Klimmek waved at her. Mehra smiled and crossed the bridge to meet him.

“Something happen up there?” he asked. “We heard thunder.”

“They spoke to me,” she replied. “Their voices are powerful.” She would say nothing about being Dragonborn, nor the title which they gave her. The less people that knew, the better.

Klimmek nodded slowly. He seemed suspicious of her, and Mehra knew that she wouldn't be able to hide her secret for very long.

“I've got a favor to ask,” Mehra sighed. “Do you have birth and death records in this town?”

“What for?” Klimmek crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing. They were suspicious of outsiders here, and in every other small town in Skyrim. She wondered if she were a Nord, if she would be treated similarly.

“There was a man from around this area that I knew a long time ago,” she replied. “I wish to pay my respects, if he is buried here.”

“A friend?”

“Something like that,” she answered.

Klimmek's face softened and he motioned her to follow him toward the inn. He told her to have a seat while he spoke to the innkeeper. Mehra didn't hear their conversation, but the innkeeper didn't seem to want any part in it, until she saw Klimmek mouth the word, 'love'.

Mehra put her head in her hands; the concept of love still managed to confuse and embarrass her, despite having many years to think over the matter. This was a lot of trouble for a man she never even allowed to touch her.

She swallowed and chastised herself. This wasn't about her.

Klimmek returned with a large, old book. Sitting down next to her, he opened it to the back.

“I'm not going to presume to know how hold you are,” he said, “but this town is ancient and goes back a long ways. Best to look near the back with the newer entries. Do you have a family name?”

“Heartfire.”

Klimmek nodded and turned the pages, stopping in the Third Era. “Heartfire,” he murmured. “I've got a Jorik and Ilse Heartfire in the late Third Era, passed during the Oblivion Crisis. They had a son, Erich; born Third Era, 406. No death record for him. The line dies out with him.”

Mehra nodded mutely. So, Erich never returned to Ivarstead.

“It's possible that the Heartfire you're looking for is elsewhere,” he said. “I'm sorry; I wish I had better news. If you want to pay respects, though, maybe his ancestors will pass them along. The Heartfires we have are in Shroud Hearth barrow. It's the one attached to the town.”

“I should have known,” she sighed. “Thank you for looking, regardless.”

Klimmek shut the book and bit his lip. “Listen,” he murmured, “I know you're older than you look, at least to us. Would you have any advice for someone like me?” He glanced behind them to see if anyone was listening.

Mehra sighed and massaged her temples. She spent a majority of her life in prison and barely experienced the world outside. If she had a chance to do it all over again, what would she have done differently?

“Ambition is fine,” she said, “but achieving everything while remaining alone is useless. Think about what matters, and who matters. Don't be afraid to get involved with others.”

Unable to think of a reply, Klimmek nodded and thanked her. Mehra excused herself and left the inn, remembering how much of a fool she'd been in her younger days. She shoved the care of others aside in favor of getting ahead, at the expense of being alone. Everyone was a threat to her back then, in her mind.

Weary steps took her to the front of Shroud Hearth barrow. She hoped that Erich moved on and found someone to marry; she worried that after their fight, he may have done something drastic. Mehra collapsed at the foot of the barrow and placed her hand on the stone stairs.

“Hey,” she mumbled, her voice much too loud for her own ears.

“The whole thing was complicated, Erich.” A Morag Tong assassin and Dark Brotherhood assassin were oil and water. It was better that they called it off, but Mehra wished that she had done so in a kinder manner.

The sky said nothing, nor did the crypt in front of her.

After hundreds of years, she was thinking about him. Funny how that worked out. Perhaps, finding out what it meant for her to be Dragonborn brought back the memories of when she was a hero, and of a time when she found a companion in the only other person who would understand what it was like to have the entire world watching.

She'd journey alone, this time. Nobody would understand exactly how she felt and it was doubtful that there would be another Dragonborn to share her burden. Mehra thought back to the Whiterun seer's words, that she would make friends, that she would be lucky.

She doubted it; she had too many secrets and any friendship she made would be based on lies.

“I miss you,” she whispered. “I thought about you sometimes, when I was in jail. I thought about your age, and knew about the time you would have passed. Eternal youth is lonely already, knowing you're gone.”

The stone under her hand was cold. There was nothing here.

Back then, she was a hothead. Looking back at it, the sight of the robes of the Black Hand tucked away in a chest in the back room of his tower was insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Even though he said he quit the Dark Brotherhood – and nobody truly quit anyway – it meant nothing. She wouldn't age, and he would live another forty years if she were lucky, and that would be the end of things. It wasn't worth storming off to Akavir over, and it wasn't worth attempting genocide in an attempt to feel better.

Mehra exhaled, her breath turning to fog in the cool Skyrim air.

She couldn't lie to herself; at the time, he was more than a mere distraction.

“I'm old, Erich. I've got things to do, but maybe, we'll meet again.”

That was, if his soul hadn't gone to Sithis in the Void. Was that why he attempted to quit? He was the type to get in over his head.

“Goodbye, Champion of Cyrodiil.”

Mehra stood, took one last look at Shroud Hearth Barrow, and left.

 


	6. Chapter 6

A/n: I took a single class of geology in college. So, I'm not a geologist, y'all. But I did do my best to draw off of what I remember. Given the size of the ashlands zones on Vvardenfell, and given the fact that there is damage on Solstheim to the magnitude that an entire fort was destroyed, it's safe to assume that nearly the entire island of Vvardenfell was covered in ash, with a few pockets of areas surviving by a thread (if they were out of the way of mudflows, etc.) Honestly, the magnitude of the eruption sounds somewhat implausible, but I'm going to go with lore-accurate over science-accurate, since Mundus isn't Earth anyway.

Also, see my notes in chapter 4 about my thoughts on teleportation as well as age of Telvanni wizards. This chapter deals with that too.

So consider all of that when you read this chapter :)

 

* * *

 

_You've learned a lot about Cyrodiil... and about yourself. It's hard to believe how ignorant you were, but now you have so much more to learn._

 

* * *

 

 

4E 5, Sadrith Mora

 

Neloth watched as an underling carried a bundle in his arms, rare scrolls ready to tumble onto the floor with each tottering step he took.

“Watch it with that!” he hissed. “Just one of those scraps of paper is likely worth more than you are.”

The boy gave him a quick 'yes, sir' before setting his bundle down on a nearby table to readjust it and take a smaller load. At least he listened; Neloth couldn't say the same for the rest of the s'wits around. There was one particular dullard who packed fire salts with a scroll of fireball! Idiot!

It was yet another reminder of why he was quite wise to leave Sadrith Mora. Each one of these Oblivion-damned kids wanted to be part of House Telvanni, just like the Nerevarine was.

And while growing the house was important, he supposed, he wanted nothing to do with these brats wandering into his tower on their first stop in the town, asking him to be their patron. His joints ached enough and adding a headache to the matter made it insufferable. The first thing he would do when he permanently moved to Solstheim was a bit of a ritual to get his body back into a more youthful shape. He delayed it for far too long.

The superstitious Nords wouldn't bother him on that island, and since it wasn't a part of Morrowind, he wouldn't be constantly harassed by upstarts wanting to make a name for themselves. And apparently, not a single Oblivion gate opened up on the Solstheim during the Crisis. Not even Mehrunes Dagon found the island to be of note, and that alone made it the perfect place to get some peace and quiet.

He heard a loud, deep rumbling sound, like someone had set off a huge explosion. Swearing, Neloth hobbled his way down the stairs and into the main room.

“Who did that?” He shouted.

They all gave him a dumb look.

“Maybe outside, sir?” One ventured.

He narrowed his eyes at the boy, hating that the suggestion was probably accurate.

“I am going outside,” he hissed. “And if anything is broken when I get in, I shall skin you all alive.”

With that, Neloth limped with his cane to the foyer of the tower.

“Master, would you like me to take your arm?”

The moving crew gasped as he whirled around to level a glare at the girl who dared say such a thing. Just as he opened his mouth to tell her where she ought to go, Neloth heard screaming outside – the mortal terror kind. It made his hair stand on end.

He hobbled as fast as he could to the front door and threw it open to see everyone in town staring at the horizon. Neloth made his way to the crowd, grumbling when they didn't make way for him.

“He is back!” a man shouted. “Dagoth Ur is back and we are doomed!”

A fiery ash cloud rolled straight toward them at a horrifying rate. Neloth shook his head; the mountain erupted.

“Get behind me!” He yelled. Those nearby ran as fast as they could toward him. Neloth waited as long as he could before throwing up a ward.

When the ash cloud hit the barrier, it nearly blew him backward with its incredible force.

Within the barrier behind him, a few dozen or so of the thousands that lived in the city. Outside – gods, outside the barrier – the remaining citizens screamed in silence, suffocating and burning alive from the inside. A woman running toward the barrier with her infant fell in the street, yet another reached the barrier and screamed, pounding on it in horror as the hot ash scalded the flesh on her body. A man lying in the street took a last look toward someone inside, silently declaring his love for them.

And then, mercifully, the dark ash was too thick for him to see what was happening.

“Grab on to me and each other; make a chain,” Neloth ordered, his voice hoarse from the effort of maintaining a large and encompassing ward against such incredible force.

He felt hands on his back, some on his legs, some on his shoulders. He had to teleport them somewhere before he lost strength. Neloth reached out with his mind to visualize somewhere safe.

Tel Fyr, Tel Vos, Tel Mora, Tel Aruhn – similar as Sadrith Mora.

Tel Uvirith – completely molten.

Vivec – a steaming, wet crater.

Caldera, Balmora – molten.

Ald'ruhn – everyone trapped in that damned crab.

Tel Branora, Ebonheart, Seyda Neen, Gnaar Mok, Gnisis – no good.

Wherever he looked: people running, screaming, on fire, suffocating, holing up in ancient buildings en masse.

Mournhold – soon to be covered in ash clouds.

Neloth swore in frustration. His barrier was weakening; his robes singed, his hands burned. He didn't have time to look at every damn settlement on the island.

The Imperial City. An enormous beacon of magic welled up from the heart of the Temple of the One, calling to him, even though Neloth had never been to the mainland his entire life.

His stomach lurched at the thought of recalling so many over such a long distance, but there was no telling how far the ash clouds would travel. It was the only way to be sure.

Neloth thought quickly, then cast his spell just in time for the barrier to fall. Hot, acidic clouds burned the skin of his hands and arms, before stopping altogether.

He heard people gasping in surprise at their sudden appearance and tried to open his eyes. Neloth couldn't help the scream that passed his lips. Undoubtedly, his palms and forearms had the skin seared off.

“Great Master!” someone called.

He collapsed at the foot of the stone dragon in the Temple of the One. Red tears welled in his eyes, a sure sign that he'd overtaxed his magical abilities.

“Get a priest or a mage! He's bleeding from his ears!”

Oh, hell.

His vision began to swim and he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Akatosh bless you,” a man murmured.

“Damn your gods,” Neloth whispered. “And damn your Nerevarine-dragonborn champion.”

He strained to look up at the man, who appeared to be a priest of Akatosh. He was a plain man – brown hair, blue eyes – but something seemed different about him.

“Here,” the priest said. “I will ease your wounds until help arrives.” He placed a hand on his chest, and Neloth was instantly calmed.

The people he saved buzzed around him, shouting for help as if they didn't see the priest of Akatosh.

“He's dying! For Azura's sake, get a priest!”

An ashen breton woman sobbed and snotted in a corner, staring at him as if he were the Nerevarine.

“Master Neloth,” the priest said, “we will not forget this.”

Neloth closed his eyes.

“Don't want to be a hero,” he murmured. His head felt heavy; he was so old. Why did he wait so long for the ritual?

He heard a group of people running toward them, talking in panicked voices.

“Erupted?” one asked. Neloth heard them round the corner.

“Divines!” another swore. “Must have erupted. These are Telvanni robes! You teleported here? From where?”

“Sadrith Mora,” a child sniffled.

The newcomers marveled at this feat, and truthfully, if he had the energy, he may have as well.

“Master Neloth is the greatest wizard to ever live!” the child declared.

No, stop. No hero worship.

Well, it was mostly true, though.

In spite of himself, and in spite of the pain, Neloth's eyes slid open and he cracked a very faint smile.

“You're tough,” the priest chuckled. “I'll definitely give you that.” He looked up as a healer stepped forward. Leaning toward her, he whispered at her. “His hip is broken. Heal as much as you can first before moving him.”

“Who are you?” Neloth panted.

The healer didn't see the priest. “I'm Bothiel,” the woman replied.

Neloth waited and looked beyond her to the priest of Akatosh.

“Martin,” the man smiled.

He closed his eyes and coughed in pain.

“I'm going to die,” Neloth rasped.

Martin shook his head 'no'. “You have a great destiny,” he smiled. “I cannot promise immense power, but I promise that you will return stronger than ever for the bravery you showed today. And perhaps, there will be some unexpected happiness down the road.”

If he weren't in pain, Neloth would have given the priest a piece of his mind; they could do their own damn saving, and the Nine Divines of the Imperials clearly didn't give a damn about the hundreds of thousands living on an island in their own domain. As if knowing what he thought, Martin chuckled and backed away, disappearing from where he came.

“No, I refuse to allow you to die,” the healer said. “But forgive me; you likely have a broken hip from falling on the ground here. I just feel that you may.”

She placed her hands on his hip, and that was when Neloth felt it. The hip was indeed broken. He swallowed bile, screaming through a clenched jaw. The woman began her healing spell.

“Telvanni Master you may be,” Bothiel murmured, “I will not let you die. You are in good hands; I am a Master-Wizard of the Arcane University.”

Arcane University. They were the highest office of the Mages Guild – the same which attempted to assassinate him mere months ago. He was in the hands of an enemy.

Neloth readied his hand to cast as his hip slowly repositioned itself and fused back where it ought to be. When he was certain that it was healed, he made his move.

He sat up as quickly as he could, his flaming hand flying out to slap her across the face.

“I'll torch you, the same as your assassin!” Neloth shouted. He stumbled to his feet, wincing at the pain in his ancient joints.

The woman groaned and turned her scorched face to him. “I don't know what assassin you're talking about,” she insisted.

His hand shook as he formed the recall spell that would take him to inside his new tower on Solstheim. The bewildered woman in front of her stepped forward, her hands outstretched. “I'm here to help!”

Her insistence was no guarantee. Neloth cast the spell.

He appeared inside his almost finished tower. Neloth stumbled toward the nearest bed – any bed, it didn't matter – his charred hand bracing against the wall. The pain was excruciating, and he wore himself out from the immense spells he cast.

Against his will, Neloth slid to the floor and watched as the sunlit window became clouded with ash. Closing his eyes, he waited.

Hours passed until he was certain that it was the next morning. Still, the ash cloud loomed outside. Still, his body and magicka wouldn't replenish. He was thirsty, hungry, and filthy.

Neloth grunted as his eyes slid shut. What a stupid death.

Days passed. Death didn't come as quickly as he thought it would. Neloth slumped in a dark corner of his partially finished tower, his lungs rattling with each breath he took. He swallowed, but the action brought no relief to his dry throat. Skin stretched tightly over the scar on his neck that the Mages Guild assassin left. How long had he been here? It had to have been a week.

Three thousand years of life, and he was going to die alone in his vacant tower.

He wasn't certain that he heard the front door to the tower open and close, but there was a sliver of his animal brain desperate to cling to any false hope.

“Neloth!”

Who was that?

He heard someone land on the main level of the tower, then footsteps approached. Neloth cracked his eyes open.

Aryon? What was Aryon doing here?

“Oh, no. Gods, Neloth.”

Strong arms lifted him to a upright position. He was too weak to groan from the pain. A waterskin pressed against his lips, and he drank greedily, not bothering to listen to whatever Aryon was saying. Much to his annoyance, Aryon finished talking, and the hands holding the waterskin pulled it away from his mouth.

“I was going to ask if I could take those who remain from Tel Vos over here,” Aryon said, “but clearly this won't do right now.”

Neloth's eyelids were too heavy to hold open. He allowed them to shut.

“My second is in charge right now,” Aryon said. “Those taking refuge in the tower have enough food and water to last a few weeks. I've ordered them to leave for Raven Rock before their supplies run low. At least, after a few weeks, it will have settled down enough for travel. They're temporarily safe. There's children there. Can't take a newborn outside until the ash settles down.”

The end of the waterskin pressed against his mouth again.

“Your hands are charred, Neloth.”

He drank deeply, and figured he'd worry about his hands later.

“You weren't here when it happened, were you?”

Neloth detached from the waterskin and shook his head. Aryon sighed, glancing around the tower.

“Do you have scrolls upstairs?” he asked. “Because now would be the time to use them.”

“Burned up,” Neloth rasped. The useful ones weren't there.

Aryon nodded, his face grim. He seemed to decide something, and Neloth watched him stand and walk away. Neloth closed his eyes. He was of no use anymore, and Aryon was abandoning him to death; such was the Telvanni way. It was a bitter ending.

The corner of the room lit up, and Neloth blinked. Aryon cast a light spell. “I'll be back. I need to find some food for you.”

Neloth didn't believe him, but surprisingly enough, he returned within minutes, a bag in his hand. Aryon stared down at him and winced.

“Your hands are trashed,” he remarked.

“Couldn't tell,” Neloth mumbled, “the pain didn't give me any indication.”

Aryon rolled his eyes, knelt down, and began to cast healing magic over his body. “I can't fix everything, but I'm going to do what I can.”

When the healing was complete, Aryon handed the bag of food to him. Neloth lifted his newly scarred hands and pulled out a piece of scrib jerky. At least it was something.

“When you're done with that,” he said, “I'm going to take you out into the woods, and we're going to find some bandits. And you are going to devour their youth. I want you to be at least thirty years old when you're done.”

He knew he needed to do it, but Neloth didn't like being told what to do. “One hundred,” Neloth grumbled.

“Fine,” Aryon relented, “One hundred. Middle aged is better than a shambling corpse.” He sighed, shook his head, and looked away.

Neloth swallowed and took a rest from eating. “You're scared.”

“I wanted our house to become more involved,” Aryon said, “but that doesn't mean I wanted everyone to die off.”

“That's the way it works,” Neloth snorted. “You're so naïve.”

“It's not a weakness to care for others. Maybe you'll see that one day.”

Neloth laughed and rested his head against the wall. Attachment was far worse than indifference. It would take Aryon centuries, if not a thousand or so more years before he realized the truth of the matter:

Telvanni were meant to be solitary.

 

* * *

 

4E 201. Skyrim.

 

A dragon found her on her way to Solitude. It seemed to seek her out; they must have known about her being declared Dragonborn. Mehra was barely able to take it out with magic and sword. After absorbing its soul, she took what would be of use from its remains, and moved on.

Mehra followed the road toward the massive city on the cliff, past the stables and a small guard outpost. On the side of the road, a group of Khajiit packed up their camp, speaking to each other in hushed tones as Mehra walked by. One broke off from the group and approached her, a broad smile on the cat's face.

"We have many wares that may be of interest," he said, "Come, and have a look, friend."

Mehra shook her head. "I'm not in the market for anything right now, thanks."

The Khajiit smiled and shrugged. "Perhaps another time, then. Be wary of Stormcloaks, traveler."

"Believe me," Mehra snorted, "I am well aware of them."

"It is good that you are. Khajiit wishes you safe travels.”

Mehra returned the pleasantry and took her leave, continuing until she reached the city's outer gate. Passing through, Mehra followed the road that funneled her in to the city's main entrance. If the Stormcloaks ever made it to the point where they attempted to take Solitude, the would no doubt suffer massive casualties; there was only one way in to the city – possibly two with the nearby dock – and besides the front gate, the only way out would be a deadly jump off the cliff and into the ocean.

And, judging by the amount of guards outside the city entrance, it was quite obvious that the city was very heavily fortified. After the assassination of High King Torygg, Mehra imagined that everyone was on edge.

This was a horrible place to meet Malborn for an undercover job. Delphine put her contact at great risk.

Shaking her head, Mehra entered the city to see a similar sight as the outside; guards everywhere, as well as many Imperial soldiers.

Through the throng of citizens and soldiers, Mehra saw a sign for the Winking Skeever. She sucked in a breath, dove into the sea of people, and worked her way over to the left side of the street. Mehra parted from the crowd at the door to the tavern and stepped inside.

Inside, the tavern prepared for the lunch hour. The barkeep bustled behind the counter, readying food and drink while a nearby bard plucked on her lute. The barkeep shouted a hello at her and Mehra glanced around the packed main room to find her contact.

Seeing no Bosmer there, she turned to the smaller room near the bar. There, in the corner behind the stone oven, was someone who could be her contact. He hunched over a half-touched cup of tea, chewing his lip in nervousness.

Mehra frowned. Delphine wasn't doing right by this one. He clearly wasn't made for intrigue.

Steeling herself, Mehra made her way over to the man in the corner. He looked up when he saw her.

"Hello," she said. "Our mutual friend sent me."

He shook his head and offered her a seat. "You?" he said. "You're the one she sent? I really hope you know what you're doing."

Mehra sat down across from him and smiled. She crossed her leg and leaned in toward him, attempting to make it look like they were meeting for something other than business.

"I'm ex-Morag Tong," she replied.

Malborn swallowed and nodded, then reached into his bag. "Maybe you will do fine, then. Here's that potion recipe she was talking about," he said, handing her an envelope.

Mehra took the envelope and put it into her bag without opening it. This was the party invitation. She watched as he smiled and leaned in and took her hand. Malborn bit his lip then leaned in to murmur something in her ear, keeping up the impromptu blind date act.

"I can smuggle smaller items for you. Tell her to order clothes for you at the Radiant Raiment."

Apparently, Malborn knew a bit more about the undercover game than she first believed. Or, at least, he was a quick study and played off of her act.

Mehra feigned a look of flattery and grasped his hand between hers. "Oh, you just met me," she gushed, "Do you really mean it?"

"Absolutely."

Batting her eyelashes, Mehra reached into her bag and pulled out her small bag of lockpicks. She didn't want to give him a blade or anything else of the sort; if he was caught with a weapon, Mehra was certain that his employers would execute him.

Malborn didn't deserve to die over a few sheets of paper.

She handed the bag of lockpicks to him and winked. "Now, don't open that til you get home, handsome."

He nodded and put the bag inside his. "I wish I could stay longer," Malborn said, "but if I don't get back to work, I'll be in trouble. I'd sure like to see you again, though."

"I'd like that," Mehra replied.

With that, Malborn gave her a quick peck on the cheek and took his leave. As Mehra watched him leave the tavern, she frowned. Without a doubt, Delphine was going to get the guy killed with her scheme. If Mehra could find a way to save him, she would, for his own sake.

She waited a few minutes before exiting the tavern, just as the lunch hour went into full swing. Once outside, Mehra glanced around before settling on the nearby pawnbroker for more lockpicks. After her quick purchase, Mehra found herself wandering the streets of the great and ancient city.

This infiltration job didn't sit well with her. No doubt, the Embassy would be crawling with extremely skilled guards with both martial and magical training. And while her words to Malborn about being a Morag Tong assassin were true, Mehra certainly wasn't in half the shape she was when she joined them.

Well, Malborn didn't have to know that. It was better that he live with confidence in her abilities, rather than fear. Mehra sucked in a deep breath and told herself likewise.

A voice interrupted her thoughts.

“You!” A man called, “You'll help me right? You help people; it's what you do.”

Mehra turned around to see a disheveled old Bosmer staring directly at her. She wasn't sure how he knew that she had a reputation for 'helping' people long ago, if helping was even the correct word. It was more like she would do nearly anything for money.

Or, maybe she simply looked like a mercenary. Shrugging it off, she approached the man.

“What's the matter?” she asked. If he needed money for some food or a room – he looked like he wasn't very well off – then Mehra had some coin to spare.

“My Master has abandoned us!” he cried. “He said he was taking a vacation and has been gone for years.”

“That's horrible,” Mehra said. “I hate to say it, but maybe something bad happened to him.” This man was likely a servant and hadn't been paid in a long time.

“Oh, goodness, no,” the man chuckled. “I'm not certain anything could harm him. But he's been at the Blue Palace for quite some time.”

Mehra glanced up the street toward the palace on the far end of the cliff. She supposed she could go down there and look this person up. “I think I can help you.”

“Oh, wonderful!” the man smiled. “My name is Dervenin. You'll find him in the Pelagius Wing of the palace. Only the maids go in there. I'm sure you'll find a way in, somehow.”

Mehra nodded. Something about this seemed off.

“You'll need the hipbone, too,” Dervenin said. He reached into his bag, pulled out a fully intact pelvis, and handed it to her.

“So, you're just handing me a pelvis in broad daylight in public,” Mehra said. “Completely normal.”

Mehra stuffed the bone into her bag as quickly as possible, hoping that nobody saw it. Well, if the man was as insane as she suspected, she could at least pretend that she did his errand, and then toss the bone over the side of the city wall and into the harbor.

Dervenin wished her luck and Mehra went on her way as quickly as possible. Having nothing better to do, she followed Solitude's main road to the Blue Palace. She passed by stone houses, their walkways lined with mountain flowers of every kind. Children ran down the street, while their nearby parents whispered the name 'Roggvir' to each other.

Mehra reached the palace and was surprised when she was allowed to walk in without any trouble. Perhaps, a Dunmer woman wasn't very threatening.

She entered the foyer and listened as voices echoed off the vaulted ceiling in the room in front of her. It seemed as if the court was in at the moment. Mehra cringed as she looked down at her dusty leather armor. She wasn't dressed for the palace in the least.

Well, she only had to speak with a housekeeper. Steeling herself, Mehra glanced into the next room and singled out the most plainly dressed woman.

"Excuse me," Mehra said. "I need to get into the Pelagius Wing."

The woman's eyes grew wide. "Nobody's allowed in there except for cleaning," she said. "Besides, it's scary. Unless, Falk sent you?"

"Yes, he did," Mehra lied.

The maid fished around in her pockets, pulled an old key off of a ring, and handed it to her. "Here," she murmured. "The door is right over there. Be careful."

Mehra took the key and unlocked the door. Stepping inside, she frowned. The place was a dusty, cob-webbed mess. If nobody was allowed in there except to clean, then whoever was assigned to clean the place never did.

Figuring that she was completely alone, Mehra swung her pack to the side and removed the envelope that Malborn gave her. She opened it, pulled out her invitation, and read it over for information.

Hm. The party wasn't for quite some time. She supposed it was this way so that the guests had plenty of time to plan. Mehra folded the invitation and placed it back into her bag. She would also have plenty of time and would use it to brush up on her stealth skills.

Mehra looked around the dim room and sighed, her breath stirring dust particles in the air. She felt the extra weight of the hipbone in her bag and swallowed. This was stupid and likely very dangerous. She wasn't supposed to be here. At the very least, she could get caught and gods-knew what would happen to her then.

But, something compelled her to cross the room and go up the stairs. There, at the far end of the hallway was a lit room. Dervenin's master was likely there, and he was likely trespassing.

This was a 'rogue wizard performing horrible experiments hidden in plain sight' situation, wasn't it?

Frowning, Mehra readied a spell in her hand and called out. She waited a moment, but there was no answer and no indication of anyone nearby.

Mehra made her way through the cobwebs, against her instincts. She made it halfway down the hallway before suddenly, she was no longer in the Blue Palace at all.

She blinked and found herself in a cloud-covered clearing in the woods, in front of a banquet table filled with food and drink. Two men sat in conversation there, completely oblivious to her presence.

Mehra titled her head to the side and stepped forward to have a closer look.

One of their voices was familiar.

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

" _Whoops! I guess the cat's out of the bag on that one! Who puts cats in bags anyway? Cats hate bags."_

 _-Sheogorath_  

 

* * *

 

 

 

3E 433. Solstheim.

 

“I'm sorry, miss, but we aren't allowing anyone on or off of the island at present moment. There are daedra opening up gates to Oblivion and attacking the continent. We have to contain the problem there.”

Mehra scowled at the guard stationed at the dock.

“Don't you know who I am?”

“Miss, we must make sure that we contain–”

“You're containing a damned problem by keeping me here! I am going to be a major problem if you don't let me leave. I am a want to get home to my tower and my recall spell doesn't reach that far!”

The guard frowned back at her.

“If you are so important and powerful, then you have to realize that not only does the world not revolve around you, but that the safety of others comes before your personal comfort.”

Mehra spun on her heel to storm back to the main barracks.

She'd never forget what the guard mumbled under his breath:

“Some kind of hero you are.”

 

* * *

 

 

4E 201

 

Mehra approached the table, her heart racing. She knew one of the voices of the men sitting there. When she was close enough to see the occupants of the banquet table, the bottom fell out of her world.

Erich?

No. It couldn't be.

But there he was, sitting there in front of her, as handsome and carefree as the day she'd met him. It couldn't be Erich; it had been two hundred years since they last spoke, and Mehra knew that he lacked the discipline to learn enough magic to lengthen his life.

She stepped closer to the banquet table until he noticed her. Gasping, Erich waved his hand, and the table, along with the other occupant, disappeared.

“You,” he said. “I feel like I know you.”

He inched forward, his hair spilling down his shoulders. She couldn't stop the run of tears down her cheeks. Erich was in front of her and he appeared to be alive and just as young as when he left her. What kind of cruel joke was this?

His hand brushed her cheek. “Who is this beautiful woman?” he asked. “And why is she crying?”

Mehra wanted nothing more than to embrace him and forget their fight ever happened. But he didn't seem to remember her, and a glance into his eyes made her heart freeze in terror.

His pupils were slits, like those of a reptile. This creature was not Erich.

“You first,” she answered. “Who are you?”

He moved his hand back to his side and beamed at her in the charming, beautiful way that could only be Erich. Whatever this was, it knew Erich well.

“I'm Sheogorath!” he laughed. “I've been me for about two hundred years. Now, it's your turn!”

Mehra clamped her hand over her mouth.

Sheogorath.

This wasn't possible.

“I am Mehra Dreloth,” she replied, “Champion of Azura, and Nerevarine.”

The Madgod appeared confused. He began to pace, holding his head and mumbling in gibberish. Every so often, she heard her name tossed in.

Mehra wiped her tears. She had to be strong, just for a while longer.

“I respect your position,” she said, “as well as your power. I do not presume to know your intentions, but I am suspicious that you intend to drive me insane by wearing the skin of my long-dead love, Erich Heartfire.”

Sheogorath froze and stared at her, his eyes wide. “Erich Heartfire? I know this name.”

Damn right he did. He stole the man's appearance!

“You will not drive me insane this way,” Mehra scowled. “I will only be saddened. I have no quarrel with you, and I sincerely hope that everything is well between you and Azura. Please, return me to the Blue Palace.”

The Madgod shook his head in confusion and regarded her one more time. “Yeah, sure,” he murmured, “I'll send you back. I've got to have a think for a bit.”

He summoned his cane and tilted his head to the side. “I'll catch you at a better time, maybe. Goodness, you're beautiful.”

Sheogorath tapped his cane on the ground, causing a bright flash and making her shield her face. When Mehra opened her eyes, she was alone in the Blue Palace.

Alone again.

Oh, Erich.

A sob escaped her throat and Mehra slid down to the floor in a heap. Vvardenfell was in ruins, and her people were scattered to all corners of the Empire. Dragons were back, and she knew without a doubt that she had to stop them from destroying Tamriel.

And then, Sheogorath. This was too much. Mehra never asked for this.

After a long time in prison, all she wanted to live a quiet life and avoid conflict. But it seemed that at every turn, her attempts were thwarted. She was fine with doing small things to make the world a truly better place. These were the things that mattered; not conquest, not wealth, not fame.

Mehra sniffled and stuck her jaw out in defiance. Again, if it was Sheogorath's intent to drive her insane, she had many more things on her mind than Erich.

Erich wouldn't have wanted her to be a sobbing mess over him, regardless. Drying her eyes, Mehra stood and left the Pelagius Wing as quickly as she could. She closed the door behind her and handed the key to the maid before leaving the palace.

Mehra wandered the streets of Solitude again, eavesdropping on people in an attempt to clear her head. Minutes passed and Mehra quickly had an idea of what was going on in the city. Many were concerned about the execution of Roggvir, who allowed Ulfric Stormcloak to leave the city after assassinating the High King. Opinions ranged from this man being a traitor, to him being a martyr who simply upheld Nord tradition. Mehra didn't have much of an opinion on it, and figured it wasn't her place to have one.

Mehra passed by two women who stood gossiping in front of a house.

"I heard there's a boy in Windhelm that contacted the Dark Brotherhood."

Mehra's stomach lurched at their conversation. She had to stop.

"Excuse me," she interrupted, "are you certain that this has happened?"

"Why, yes," the woman replied. "My cousin lives there. Now things have been tough since the war started, but we keep in touch. She says there's chanting coming from the boy's abandoned house. I don't know what would drive a child to do such a thing."

“We live in dark times,” Mehra said.

“Indeed,” the woman sighed. “Divines help us all.”

Mehra thanked her and continued on her way. If a child truly did contact the Dark Brotherhood, then it meant trouble. Here was something small she could do, and nobody would have to know that she did it. Didn't someone care for this child? She couldn't picture a properly loved and supervised child summoning the Dark Brotherhood. Perhaps, something happened, and he was left without a caretaker.

Even if it was from a rumor, it was something she could look into. At the very least, she'd get to see what the fuss was about Windhelm in the first place. With her mind made up, Mehra left Solitude, not certain if she would ever return.

Mehra took the quickest, most direct path possible to Windhelm. She passed many days on the road, attempting to not think of Sheogorath and failing miserably.

She didn't understand it. Azura and Sheogorath never had troubled relations. In fact, it didn't seem as if they ever spoke. Before she knew it, Mehra was wringing her hands in anxiousness and staring down at the Moon-and-Star.

“Lady, please,” she mumbled, “please don't test me in this way. I'm not the person I once was.”

As always, Azura had no answer. Mehra was on her own, now. Perhaps, her punishment was to be alone for the rest of her life for the things she had done. These thoughts consumed her all the way to Windhelm's dark entrance. An icy slope of snow and gravel led her up to the dark bridge which spanned across the river toward Windhelm. Passing under an archway from the main city wall, Mehra saw a guard to her left.

"I've heard a rumor about a child contacting the Dark Brotherhood," she said.

"It's no secret that the Arentino boy is trying to call them," the guard admitted. "But we're strapped as we are with the war effort. I wish someone would help him, but people keep to themselves here, Me? I'll have no part in that."

"I'm not afraid of it," Mehra said. "It's just a kid, for goodness sake."

"That's what you say now," the guard said. "But if there is a way to help out, maybe you could do it."

Mehra nodded and continued onward into the city, down the long, dark bridge with the rest of the afternoon crowd. She followed them into the city and looked around to gather her bearings.

Piles of shoveled snow and gravel lined the dark streets. In front of her, twin stairs led up to a bustling tavern, half-melted icicles hanging from its roof. The city thawed from the long winter – wet, dark and filthy.

"You come to our city, you eat our food, you pollute our city with your stink, and you refuse to help the Stormcloaks!"

Mehra frowned and looked around for the owner of the voice. There, in plain view of everyone, a pair of Nord men stared down a Dunmer woman.

"We haven't taken a side because it isn't our fight!" the woman protested.

Both men narrowed their eyes and stepped forward. Mehra decided that she'd seen enough.

"Hey!" she called, stomping forward.

All three turned to look at her, just as her boots hit a patch of ice. Yelping, Mehra fell to the ground on her backside. The men cackled at her and the Dunmer woman took the opportunity to break away.

"Damn greyskin!" the man shouted. "Get back to Morrowind. The only thing that's worse than a scale-back is a damned greyskin."

Mehra slipped again as she righted herself. The woman approached her with wide eyes and shook her head. But Mehra wasn't having it; she had a horrible day already and wasn't going to take it.

"I don't like your attitude," Mehra hissed. She stalked toward the man, making sure to avoid the ice around her.

"I don't give a damn what you think," he replied. "You people come here and live like parasites. If you don't get out of my face, I'll punch you back to where you came from."

Mehra glanced down at his rounded stomach and back up to his balding head. A crowd began to gather, just to see what would happen.

"I don't like snot-nosed kids like you thinking they can disrespect their elders," Mehra frowned. "Please, come after me; make my day."

She barely had time to dodge his fist as it flew directly at her face. Shouting, Mehra drove her elbow into the man's side. As he staggered and coughed, she punched him in the face.

Her people were hard-working and brilliant. They created massive cities and works of art the likes of which didn't exist in Skyrim, and this simpleton dared insult them. His life would last a mere fourth of the lifespan of a Dunmer.

Mehra punched him again and wound her fist back for another blow. Blood poured down the man's face, making her freeze. Gods, she wanted to kill him right there. Shaking, Mehra leaned down to eye level with the felled Nord.

"Leave my people alone," she hissed. Had it been another time, she wouldn't have stopped until she caved in his face.

He whimpered in reply, and Mehra spun on her heel, desperate to get away. Catcalls followed her as she disappeared behind the tavern and up a set of stairs. When she was far enough, Mehra stopped on the side of the street and leaned against the wall in pain. She was certain that she broke her hand.

Dozens passed by, and not a single one paid attention to the injured, crying Dunmer woman on the side of the street. Mehra clutched her hand to her chest and rocked herself. She had to focus in order to cast her self-healing spell.

"Goodness sakes, go to the Grey Quarter with that," a passerby mumbled.

Grey Quarter?

Mehra swallowed. The city was segregated.

She forced herself to calm down as much as she could; she hadn't been injured in a very long time, and the feeling was no longer familiar. Through the throbbing, she focused her energy on imagining her hand, whole and without pain. Her working hand formed the spell, then cast. The spell took much longer than it should have, but Mehra was content with knowing that she could reasonably heal her own injuries, should she need to.

Closing her eyes, Mehra took a deep breath. She had something to do here. Pushing off of the wall, Mehra wandered through the wealthy district, causing many Nords to turn their heads. She passed by plaques honoring the ancient Atmoran kings which ruled in Windhelm many centuries ago and read their names.

Hoag. Nerevar killed him in combat. Ysmir. Nerevar defeated him in combat as well, and allowed him to live as an example.

There was no love between the Nords and Dunmer, and there hadn't been until the Empire stabilized Tamriel. After the last of the Septims died out, however, Mehra supposed that it was predictable that their fighting began again.

It didn't make it right, however.

She continued her wandering and allowed herself to cool off. Delphine was right; this city was not a place for her to visit.

Mehra rounded a corner and stopped at the strange sight in front of her. A young, well-groomed boy stood with a common looking Dunmer woman in the middle of the street. He spoke excitedly with her, the words 'Dark Brotherhood' standing out.

This was a good lead.

Mehra approached the pair as the Dunmer woman leaned over and put her hand on his shoulder. She rebuked him softly, telling him that it was true, and that he wasn't to contact Aventus Aretino again.

"Excuse me," Mehra said. "I couldn't help but overhear something about the Dark Brotherhood."

The woman stood up and sighed as the child in her care bounced around happily. "Yes! He lives right here! Are you an assassin?"

His caretaker hushed him quickly and moved his pointing finger down to his side. But it was too late, and Mehra knew which house to investigate.

"There was an incident, yes," the woman replied. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm here to investigate it," Mehra said.

The woman frowned and crossed her arms. This didn't impress her. "And why?"

Mehra bit her lip. "Uh," she mumbled, "Tong business."

Idiot. Stupid idiot. She was name-dropping something she hadn't been a part of for a long time.

The woman's eyes widened. Clearly, she bought it. "I'll keep it secret," she said.

Mehra nodded and put on her best guild-face. Kneeling down, she smiled at the little boy. "I'm going to try to see what's going on with your friend," she said. "I want to make sure he's safe. Sound good?"

The boy nodded and Mehra stood. His caretaker gave her a quick thank-you before dragging the excited child away. She mentioned going down to the dock to watch the Argonians – she said he could learn that not everybody was as fortunate as he.

Mehra pursed her lips. Hopefully, the boy would learn a valuable lesson. Turning to the door of the residence behind her, Mehra shook her head. Hopefully, she could teach a valuable lesson as well.

She walked up to the door and attempted to open it, but it was locked. Putting her ear to the door, Mehra heard chanting inside. Without a doubt, the child was preforming the Black Sacrament. She pulled out a lockpick, knelt down in front of the door, and picked the lock. It popped open with ease, and she opened the door and stepped into the house.

The smell of blood and death hit her, and Mehra steeled herself. She crept up the dimly lit stairs and into the center of the run down house. How was this child living here?

Rounding the corner, Mehra saw Aventus kneeling on the floor in a circle of candles, stabbing a decaying heart next to a skeleton. Mehra swallowed. This was sick. What would drive a child to do such a thing?

She cleared her throat, and the boy wheeled around.

"Finally! My prayers have been answered!"

Mehra took in his scrawny, filthy appearance and frowned. "Are you all right?"

He ignored her and stepped forward. "You're an assassin!" Aventus marveled. "I prayed and prayed and did the thing with the items and the body. I was worried that you'd never come."

"I'm not Dark Brotherhood, boy."

"Of course you are!" he said. "Now you can accept my contract."

Mehra led him away from the body and pried his fingers off of the rusty dagger in his hand. "Let's talk about this contract."

Together, they walked toward the main room and sat down on the bed. Aventus brought a shaking hand to wipe his teary eyes.

"My mother," he cried, "she died. And I was sent to the orphanage in Riften. The headmistress there is cruel. So, I ran away and performed the Black Sacrament. Now, you can kill Grelod the Kind."

"What happened to your mother?"

"She got sick last year," he sniffled, "when the snows came. She just never got better."

Mehra's heart sank. "Do you have any family here in the city?"

"No," he replied. "The Jarl said I had to go to Honorhall Orphanage. It's not fair!"

"Did you make any friends there?"

"I tried to, but –"

He burst into tears again. Mehra swept him into her arms and held him as he bawled against her shoulder.

"She didn't let us. We cleaned the whole time and if we didn't do things fast enough, we'd get a beating."

Mehra held him tight and rocked him gently. As his tears slowed, she loosened her grip.

"Please don't kill Constance Michel," he said. "She really is kind."

"If Grelod weren't at the orphanage, would you go back?" Mehra asked.

Aventus shrugged. "Got nowhere to go. Revyn Sadri down in the Grey Quarter gives me food."

"I'm not the assassin you think I am," Mehra said, "but I'm taking you seriously. I'll go to Riften and look at this."

He seemed disappointed, but he nodded.

"Do you need anything before I leave?" she asked.

"No, ma'am."

Mehra nodded and stood. "You'll hear from me in a week or so," she said. Mehra pointed at the sight of the Black Sacrament in the corner. "Now, stop doing that, please. Clean up what you can in case anyone comes by asking questions. Be careful with the nightshade; it's poison. Wash your hands very well after touching it.”

Aventus stood as well. "Yes, ma'am," he mumbled. The boy inched forward then wrapped his arms around her legs.

Mehra put his hand on his head and ruffled his hair. If this city was going to fail him, then she'd step in and do the right thing. She stepped back from Aventus, turned toward the door, and took one last look at the boy.

"Stay out of trouble," she called, before leaving the house.

Closing the door behind her, Mehra took a deep breath of the cleaner air outside. She hadn't expected the rumor to be as true as it was. Perhaps, nobody believed Aventus that the headmaster of the orphanage was as cruel as he said. But Mehra remembered all too well the truth that lay behind closed orphanage doors; she'd believe the child's word until proven otherwise.

She supposed she ought to at least visit the man who was feeding the boy and let him know what was going on. Mehra wandered the streets again, searching for the Grey Quarter. A set of slippery stairs took her downward into unshoveled slush, toward a walled-off area of the city decorated in tattered Dunmeri banners.

Gods, they were down here?

Steeling herself, Mehra rounded the corner of the wall and walked through the narrow streets. The dwellings were stacked high, some with flimsy, wooden additions on top. Tattered cloth and furs hung in front of many of the windows in an attempt to ward off the cold air. At her feet, the slush of melted runoff and poor roads created a black ooze.

Mehra watched as skinny, dirty Dunmer glanced her way, some occasionally greeting her with a nod. This was the legacy she left behind.

Weary, Mehra searched for a shop or a tavern – anywhere she could ask about Revyn Sadri. It seemed as if most places were residences. Mehra rounded another corner in the labyrinth of the Grey Quarter and sighed in relief when she saw a sign for Sadri's Used Wares. Of course, a shopkeep would be able to afford feeding an orphaned child.

Mehra walked up to the door, her boots crunching on the gravel laid down in front to prevent ice from forming. The door opened with a squeak, and Mehra stepped in.

A shopkeep swept the floor with a ratty broom, his clean, newer looking clothes out of place for the slum in which he lived. He saw her, smiled, and ran his hand through his wiry, gray hair.

"Welcome!" he called. "Have a look around. Give me a holler if you have any questions."

"Holler," Mehra said.

He laughed and approached her, his smile bright. "I'm all ears. What do you need?"

"It's about the Arentino boy, actually," she said.

His face fell. "Go on."

"Are you Revyn?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, "and I've been feeding that child because nobody else can be bothered to, probably because he's an Imperial child. I have him come down here for breakfast and supper. Who are you?"

"My name's Mehra," she replied. "I'm just someone trying to be a decent person. He's been alone the entire time he's been back."

Revyn's expression softened and he motioned her to follow him into the next room. Pulling out a chair at the nearby table, he invited her to sit. Mehra took the offered chair and Revyn sat down across from her, a concerned look on his face.

"I wanted to tell you that he may be going back to the orphanage again where he will be safe," she said.

Revyn nodded. "Thank you for telling me," he said. Revyn sighed and put his hands on his face. "Honestly, if there weren't so many people to help here, I'd take the first boat to Solstheim and get the hell out."

"Solstheim? What's there?"

"Well, Raven Rock, for starters," he replied. "It's not much, but Redoran is running it as well as they can. It's clean, at least. They're self sufficient and the Telvanni Wizard further to the east is constantly ordering expensive items."

A Telvanni wizard? On Solstheim?

Revyn chuckled. "You seem so surprised," he said. "You must know that the Telvanni are gold hoarders."

"Do you know the name of this wizard?"

"I don't," he replied, "and I don't want to know, honestly."

Mehra bit her lip. Maybe, she could reconnect with her House. She was quite certain that none of the old Masters would have moved their established towers to the wasteland of Solstheim. So, with that in mind, a newer Master would be much more favorable toward her. Perhaps, she could mention that she knew Aryon. She'd have to be careful; her identity as the Nerevarine was to be kept a secret.

“How does one get to Solstheim?” she asked.

“Talk to Gjalund Salt-Sage down the dock,” Revyn replied, “he takes his ship, the Northern Maiden, there from time to time to trade. The ice makes the voyage dangerous, but he's got the skill for it.”

He frowned then looked up at her. “You're not planning to see this wizard, are you?”

“Thinking about it,” she admitted.

“Be careful,” he said. “Maybe you're too young to remember Telvanni in their prime but they are not to be trifled with. Even with the House weakened, they are incredibly formidable. They're stubborn and ruthless.”

Mehra swallowed and nodded. Weakened? How much? Sure, they weren't changing well with the times when she joined in the late Third Era, but she couldn't imagine that the damage to the House was as horrible he claimed it to be, even with the Argonian Invasion. Some of the mightiest and most brilliant wizards to ever live came from Telvanni, and they were certainly capable of self-defense.

Disturbed by the shopkeep's inference, Mehra figured she'd have to research on her own to avoid looking like she'd been living under a rock. In the meantime, she would get to Riften as soon as possible.

 

* * *

 

4E 201, Winterhold

 

Mirabelle gripped her cloak and drew it around her body as closely as she could. Exhaling in frustration, she watched as her breath turned to mist in the air. It was supposed to be spring.

She stood in at the far corner of the Hall of the Elements, watching Tolfdir's class practice wards. They begged him to teach them something practical and he relented by giving them instructions on how to cast protective spells, starting with a lesser ward.

All the while, Ancano lurked in the back of the lecture hall, his arms crossed. He devoted his time to staying in the hall and watching the students' lectures, rather than advising the Archmage as was his duty.

Mirabelle watched as each student cast a ward while Tolfdir sent a weak shock spell toward their barriers. They continued in this way, taking turns until J'zargo and Onmund were forced to drop their barriers and take a break. Brelyna continued until she hunched over, panting and drenched in sweat.

Tolfdir paused, his shock spell dying in his hand. “Now, if you keep up your ward when you are drained, it will shatter. Brelyna, will you help me demonstrate this? You will be harmed in the process, so I will not do it if you are uncomfortable.”

The Dunmer nodded and put her ward up again. “I'm ready, Master.”

With her consent, flames erupted from Tolfdir's hand. Brelyna held her shaking hands against the spell and fell to one knee, but the barrier still held.

“Goodness,” Tolfdir mumbled, “that's an impressive ward for someone who just learned it.”

Mirabelle nodded in agreement. The new students were learning quickly and were quite talented. She watched as the student held the barrier up and grit her teeth.

“Now, eventually, the barrier is going to shatter,” Tolfdir continued. “I want you all to take a look at what happens.”

Several seconds passed and finally, the barrier shattered, the sound making the watching students flinch. Tolfdir dropped his fire spell immediately and walked forward to check on the downed student. As he knelt down, he put a hand on Brelyna's arm.

Mirabelle waited until she was certain Brelyna recovered before turning to leave. As she passed by the stone-faced Thalmor agent, she gave him a nod. Ancano made no move to acknowledge her. From his lack of gratefulness to the fact that he never assisted Savos as he was supposed to, Mirabelle was hard-pressed to find a reason why Ancano was there aside from being a sinister nuisance.

She was done following him around, at least, for now. Mirabelle was in the middle of an interesting book on the theory of regenerative restoration. When she finished, she wanted to share her notes with Savos and see what he thought.

Mirabelle jogged up the winding stairs to her quarters, intent on finishing her reading. At the same time, Savos rounded the corner and grinned when he saw her. They stopped in the middle of the staircase and Mirabelle felt a thrill in the pit of her stomach as Savos gave her a once-over.

“Cold, Master Ervine?” he asked, motioning to her closely bundled cloak.

She crossed her arms and quirked her brow.

“Mirabelle,” he corrected. Savos placed his hand on the wall next to her shoulder, bringing them in close. A red light illuminated them as warmth spread along the wall and seeped into her skin. Mirabelle sighed and closed her eyes; the control he had over the runes he cast was unlike anything she ever seen.

“Are you going to continue your research?” Savos asked.

Mirabelle opened her eyes and snuggled into the rune's warmth. “I am,” she said. “I hope that you find my notes interesting.”

“I always do, Mirabelle.”

“I also see that your Thalmor assistant is doing a wonderful job,” she smirked, “assisting you as he is.”

Savos smiled and peered down the stairs. “The best way that I can be assisted,” he chuckled, “is by not being assisted at all.”

His gaze traveled back to her. “Unless, it is you assisting me, Mirabelle.” Savos stepped closer and her face flushed.

All their plans, their careful studies and prepared instructions of how to keep the students in line gave them little time for the inevitable truth in front of them – that their professional relationship died long ago. Savos stepped down to her level, pinning her with his curious red gaze.

The first brush of their lips was tentative, but as Mirabelle closed her eyes, they pressed together, heated and wanton from months of private, personal conversations interspersed amid academic drudgery.

Hands wove into her hair. He stepped closer still, bringing their bodies as close as possible. Sliding her hands up his chest, Mirabelle gripped his cloak and leaned in, her tongue darting out to tangle with his.

The door to the lower level of the hall opened and the pair jumped back from each other. Panting, Mirabelle cast a glare at the unknown person who interrupted them.

Savos cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. “Well, let me know what you end up finding in your research,” he said.

  
“I look forward to our discussion,” she replied.

Smiling, Savos leaned in for another quick kiss before disappearing down the stairwell. When he was gone, Mirabelle let out a deep breath.

How in the world was she going to hide this?

 

* * *

4E 201, Riften

 

Riften was a beautiful stone and wood city located on the side of a large lake. The Stormcloaks patrolling far outside the city seemed friendly enough; they were a far cry from those in Windhelm, at the very least. There was a smell in the air, but Mehra reserved her judgment; there were farms nearby. Maybe, the city didn't smell.

Her positive attitude continued until she came across the guards that wanted money for visitors to come in to the city. Mehra called it as she saw it – there was no visitor's tax and the guards were obviously corrupt. They sent her inside without making her pay in hopes that she'd keep it quiet, joking that the city was the home of the Thieves' Guild.

She'd take them seriously and keep her coinpurse close. If this place was such a crime-ridden area, then why weren't there orphanages elsewhere?

Mehra sighed. She had an investigation to do. As the door to the city opened, a cloud of stench hit her, making her cringe and fight the urge to cover her nose. It was Seyda Neen all over again, but triple in size.

She didn't make it more than ten steps into the city before a brute of a Nord stopped her in her tracks.

"You here to cause trouble?" he frowned.

"Just passing through," Mehra replied.

"While you're here, stay out of the Black-Briar's business," he said. "Maven Black-Briar owns this city and has the Thieves' Guild in her back pocket. I patrol the streets for her. Do you understand?"

Mehra nodded. She understood perfectly; this city was almost worse than Windhelm. How many more cities did the Stormcloaks have, and were they all this awful?

"If you need information," the Nord said, "I can get it for you for a price. Name's Maul."

"I'll be sure to remember that," she replied.

He gave her one final warning before she left. Mehra walked down the short street and onto the docks that lined buildings on stilts. Mehra didn't make it far before being stopped by yet another person. He was tall and thin, with red hair and freckles dotting his cheeks. Giving her a slimy smile, he walked up to her. She hid her grimace as best she could when he drew closer; the man smelled as if he'd been rolling in a sewer.

"Never done an honest day's work for all that coin you're carrying, eh lass?"

Mehra scowled. "Are you calling me a whore?"

She heard enough stories of hypersexual Dunmer women to last a lifetime. For Azura's sake, just because Barenziah had relations with a Khajiit in plain view in a bar in this very city didn't mean that all Dunmer women were as such.

The man's eyes grew wide and he held his hands up in defense. "No, lass," he insisted, "not in that way. I'd never insist such a thing of anyone. I'm saying you look like one of us: a sneakthief."

Mehra crossed her arms. "That isn't much better."

"Oh, now don't be like that," he laughed. "I want you to be in on something, is all."

"Go on."

"Someone wants a merchant here put out of business permanently," he said. "What I do is make a distraction. You go and steal Madesi's ring, then plant it in Brand-Shei's pocket. He'll be done for good when he gets caught."

"Are you out of your mind?" Mehra hissed. "Find someone else to do your dirty work."

She spun on her heel and stormed away, but not quickly enough to hear his parting words:

"You'll be back. They always come back."

Mehra continued deeper into the city, her stomach sour. Was she really much better than the Thieves' Guild? She was in the city to potentially fulfill an illegal contract on an old woman taking care of orphans. But, she did make a promise to Aventus and a promise to a child was equal to a promise to anyone else.

She ended up at a circle of vending stalls, with crowds bustling around to look at the wares. Mehra browsed as well, attempting to keep her mind off of her troubles. She paused at a jeweler's stand. Her eyes were drawn to the loose jewels inside a locked cabinet. The Argonian behind the stand watched her look at the wares, and she felt bad for not being able to afford them. She didn't want to waste his time.

"See anything you like?" the vendor asked. "I'm one of the few Saxhleel jewelers left in Skyrim, so these pieces are quite rare."

"Too rich for my blood," Mehra admitted. "But someday, I would like one."

He smiled and nodded. "Well, when you do reach fame and fortune, remember Madesi here in Riften."

Mehra froze. "Madesi?"

"Yes," he frowned, suddenly suspicious.

"Someone's trying to frame Brand-Shei," she said. "If it appears he's stolen from you, don't believe it for a second."

The Argonian nodded. "You could get in trouble trying to stop things here."

"I can handle myself," she shrugged. At the very least, she could blast someone pursuing her with a shout, then run away.

"Well, I hope that you will be my customer soon," Madesi smiled. "Safe travels, landstrider."

Mehra left his stand and continued browsing the other shops until she stopped at one that sold items from Morrowind. There was jewelry, alcohol, earthenware, and tapestries of all kinds. Mehra walked around the side of the stand and felt a yellow cloth that had green swirls embroidered in to it. She had one like it in her tower.

"Do you like this one, miss?"

Mehra let go of the cloth and turned to the shop owner. "It's lovely," she said. "It reminds me of Vvardenfell."

"A discount for you, then," he said.

She shook her head and closed her eyes. "I don't want to be sad."

"I understand. I was born there," he said. "Don't remember it, though."

"Orphan?"

"Yeah," he sighed. "An orphan, but also not an orphan. A pair of Argonians found me as a baby and adopted me as their own. They named me Brand-Shei."

"You're fortunate," she said. Mehra remembered countless visitors to the orphanage, each one passing her up in favor of the prettier, light-skinned humans. It never mattered how polite or well-groomed she was; in Daggerfall, nobody wanted a Dunmer child.

"I like to think I was fortunate," Brand-Shei replied. "I had loving parents, and that's more than I can say for most. Still, it would be nice to know more."

"Any clues?"

"Just one," he replied, "My father told me that I was wrapped in a blanket belonging to House Telvanni.

He told Mehra his best guess: a matron for the House boarded a ship during the Ascension War, but never made landfall. He was the right age to have possibly been on that ship. The ship was called the Pride of Tel Vos.

Mehra swallowed and closed her eyes. Of course, the Argonians attacked the Telvanni settlements. Who could blame them, after so many centuries of slavery? It made what Brand-Shei's parents did all the more impressive.

Aryon – kind, progressive, and caring Aryon – was almost certainly dead. He was incredibly powerful, but he couldn't have held off an entire invading force of Argonians from his keep.

"Something the matter?" Brand-Shei asked.

Mehra looked up at him and took measure of all that he could have been. He was at the cusp of being elderly, and he tended a shop in a crime-ridden city instead of being part of his House. Maybe he would have become a mycologist, or risen the ranks to become a wizard.

"Someone's trying to frame you," she mumbled. "Keep quiet about it and turn out your pockets often."

Then, in a louder voice; "I'll look into this for you," she said. "Maybe I can find that wreck."

"You mean it?" He didn't skip a beat, as if he were used to mumbled messages of warning.

"Absolutely." On her honor as a Master of House Telvanni, absolutely.

She was tempted to ask him where the orphanage was, but decided against it; Mehra didn't want him to be associated with anything involving what she was thinking about doing.

Mehra took her leave and wandered around the market again, looking at everything she couldn't afford. Yet again, she was broke and sad in the middle of a muggy, dirty city.

Eventually, Mehra came across the orphanage. It sat in the farthest corner of Riften, with a tall wall and spiked gate surrounding it. She heard no laughter or any sign of children; it was like a prison. Unsure of how to get in without looking suspicious, Mehra decided that she would have to treat it like an assassination, even if she was just taking a look at the place.

If it was as locked-up as it seemed, it was likely that she'd be the only visitor that day. A murder – if one occurred – would point directly back to her.

How in the hell was she going to make chameleon work when she didn't have the magicka to cast it?

Mehra circled back around to the front of the city and puzzled it over. If she could get a potion to fortify her magicka, then she could, in theory, cast the correct spell.

Yes, this could work.

With her mind made up, Mehra peered around for an alchemy shop. The Nord, Maul, from earlier stopped her. "Lookin' for something?"

"Alchemy shop," she said.

He jerked his head in the direction of the lower level. "Down there. That advice is for free, tourist."

Mehra thanked him and turned to leave, but thought better of it. "I've a question for you," she said.

He waited in silence.

"I'm looking for an old shipwreck," she said. "It would be about two hundred years old. The ship should be of a Morrowind style, probably with distinct curls on the bow and stern."

Maul smirked. He obviously knew exactly what she was talking about.

"Coins first," he said. "Two hundred."

Mehra motioned toward a nearby alleyway, and Maul followed. Once they were hidden, Mehra gave him the proper amount. Maul tossed the coins into a bulging coinpurse and gave her a grin.

"Your ship's east of Winterhold," he said. "Not too far east. You can see the College from where it is. Can't miss it. Good luck with the bandits."

"Got a name for that ship?"

"No. It's definitely Morrowind style, though."

"Well, thank you," she replied. "Your information is very helpful."

He grunted in reply and crossed his arms. “Bundle up when you go, girl.”

Taking that as her signal that he was done with her, Mehra crossed creaking planks and jogged down the nearby stairs to the lower level of Riften. Halfway down the stairs, the smell of sewage hit her, warmed from the mid-day sun.

Cringing, Mehra walked across the walkway to the apothecary and entered the shop. The door closed behind her, dimming the shop considerably but protecting her senses from the smell of the sewage. Rows upon rows of various potions stood in multiple locked cabinets behind the counter, with an elderly woman standing in front of the wares.

“Hello, dear,” the woman smiled. “Welcome. I'm Hafjorg. How can I assist you?”

“I need a fortify magicka potion powerful enough that I'll fart smoke for a week.”

Hafjorg laughed and turned to her cabinets. “Fair enough, dear,” she said. “I take it you're studying, then?”

“Sure am,” Mehra replied. Studying an old woman to see if she was a worthy keeper of the orphans she watched, but studying nonetheless.

"Also, I've got a job to poison some foxes getting into a henhouse," she said, "I need some skeever tail, giant lichen, and sabre cat eye."

The woman smiled. "I don't make the potions around here, but that sounds like a proper poison to me. If you want a strong mix though, I'm afraid you'll have to wait for my husband to return from gathering ingredients with his apprentice.”

Mehra nodded as the old woman handed the potion to her. “I can mix it myself, I think. That is, if the station is open for customer use.”

“Of course, dear,” Hafjorg replied, “just make sure you rinse it well when you're done.” Opening a cabinet, she searched around for the ingredients. “Equal parts, dear?” she called.

Mehra pursed her lips. She couldn't remember the numbers of it all. Given that skeevers were similar to rats, however, she figured it was a safe bet that they would have more detrimental effects than the other ingredients. “Extra skeever tail, please.”

Hafjorg grabbed the supplies and placed them at the brewing station. “Let's skip the haggling. You're running 250 gold for the lot. Sound good?”

Mehra nodded in agreement and handed her the appropriate amount, frowning when she realized that she had only about one hundred left. It was time to do another job for someone. The Companions seemed like the safest bet.

She stopped in front of the brewing stand and closed her eyes. How did this go, again? Slowly, she ground and distilled the ingredients, combining them in an order that she figured would work. As the green potion poured into the vial, Mehra bit her lip. It looked the way she remembered it looking. She took the finished potion from the stand, brought it to her nose, and sniffed.

The potion burned her nostrils, making her cough and cork it as quickly as possible.

“Looks like you got it right,” the old woman laughed.

Mehra nodded and cringed. If the potion were incorrect, she would have gagged; an off potion was easy to spot. Slipping the poison into her bag next to the valuable magicka potion, Mehra thoroughly cleaned the brewing station, thanked the shop keeper, and stepped back out into the putrid air of the canal.

The poison wouldn't do on its own. It would be much too obvious and difficult to administer. If she did decide on an assassination, it had to look like an accident to keep anyone from guessing. She did have a pair of apples in her bag. She could poison one.

With her method decided, Mehra left the city and walked away from the road for some time until she came across a broad, flat tree stump which overlooked the lake. She sat down, pulled out the apple and poison, and stared out at the lake.

The air was clear here. Mehra closed her eyes and breathed deeply, the cool, faint breeze reminding her of the forest surrounding Erich's tower in the mountains. Her chin quivered, tears spilling down her cheeks as she opened her bag and withdrew the apple and poison.

She had to keep going. Mehra set the apple on the ground in front of her and poured poison on top of it. The smell hit her again and she watched through blurred vision as the poison soaked in to the apple's skin, the excess evaporating in the wind. Mehra repeated the process of pouring, watching the poison dry, then pouring again.

She remembered Aryon telling her to stop once on a while, that she would work herself into an early grave if she didn't take a break. He told her it was not deficient or weak to feel emotions. It didn't matter, now. He was gone, Erich was gone, her tower was gone, and it sounded as if her House was decimated– everything she had ever known disappeared.

Mehra began to rock herself as she poured the last drops of the poison on the apple, trying desperately to keep herself together. Through sheer force of will, she slowed her tears. A glance down told her that the apple was ready.

Angry that she allowed herself to get into this mess and furious that she knew that her contract was as good as fulfilled in her mind, Mehra threw the empty poison bottle at a nearby tree. It sailed past the trunk harmlessly to land in the soft dirt. Mehra hunched over in defeat.

"No tantrums,” she sighed. “And now's not the time to cry.”

Mehra squashed the desire to find somewhere quiet to curl up and sob. She had to suck it up, period. With more force than necessary, she yanked a cloth from her bag, snatched the apple with it, and stuffed it in her bag. She occupied herself as she walked back into town with thinking about what would make her decide to plant the apple, and quickly realized that she couldn't think of what exactly would make her do it.

She would know. That was all there was to it.

Mehra made her way through the city and to the Temple, where she borrowed a sheet of paper for a quick note to Grelod. If one of the children decided to eat the apple, she would never forgive herself; the apple had to look like a gift. With her final task complete, it was time to put her plan into action.

Mehra drank the magicka potion in a dark alleyway, then cast her spell and made her way to the orphange as quickly as she could. Scrambling up and over the fence, she crept through the back door and watched as an elderly woman paced in front of a group of terrified, bruised children.

"Those who shirk their duties will get an extra beating," an old woman said, "Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Grelod."

"And one more thing," she continued, "I don't want to hear any talk of adoptions. None of you riff-raff are getting adopted, ever! Nobody needs you. Nobody wants you."

Mehra swallowed thickly, very aware of the poisoned apple in her bag. She couldn't allow these children to endure such a terrible woman. Without a second thought, she crept into a nearby bedroom and placed the apple on the table with the note next to it.

Mehra cast the spell again, just to make sure it wouldn't wear off. The effects of the potion made her feel as she used to – powerful, and completely in control.

But Mehra knew better, and knew that she couldn't handle raw power without it getting out of hand.

Her heart hammered as the old woman entered the room. Immediately, Grelod noticed the shiny, out of place apple. Grelod snatched the note off the table and read it with a scowl.

"About damned time someone recognized my hard work," she mumbled. Then, she took a bite of the apple. Immediately, Grelod knew that something was off, but it couldn't be stopped; the poison was already in effect.

Grelod stumbled across the room and choked, the poisoned apple tumbling from her hands to land innocently on the floor.

"Constance!" one of the children called. "Something's wrong with Grelod!"

A young, tanned woman ran forward to aid the old woman. "One of you go get the priestess!"

The child that called out to her dashed off, her pigtails flying behind her.

"The rest of you, leave the room," the woman said. The orphans slowly did as they were told, transfixed by the sight of the choking old woman.

"Constance, help me," Grelod groaned.

"I'm trying," the woman cried, "I'm trying. Is it your heart?"

Grelod nodded. Constance guided her to lie down on the floor and Mehra concluded that she'd seen enough. Grelod was on her way out. She could return to Aventus and tell him to please go back to the orphanage.

While everyone was distracted, Mehra grabbed the poisoned apple and note, slipped out the door, and crawled back over the fence. The world would be a better place without Grelod in it.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

A/n: Big chapter here! There had to be a turning point of sorts, so here it is.

 

* * *

 

 

_You've done things the hard way. But without taking risks, taking responsibility for failure...how could you have understood?_

 

 

* * *

 

 

4E 201, Riften

 

Finding the shipwreck was easy enough, but traveling the long way up to Winterhold was quite a task with the stubborn snow still holding on in the northern area of the province. The town was nearly dead, and it appeared that nobody that lived there trusted the massive Mages College on the cliff. Mehra was wary as well, but on account that she didn't want anyone meddling in House business.

As if that mattered much anymore. She stuck out in whatever town she visited, despite her best efforts. Her idea of keeping a low profile turned into encountering Sheogorath dressed as Erich, starting a fistfight in Windhelm, meddling in Thieves' Guild affairs in Riften, and assassinating an elderly woman. She was never good at leaving things alone. But, stopping the dragons? She wanted nothing to do with that. Mehra wanted to fight for the choice to control her own fate at the very least.

Mehra sighed as she passed the gate into Riften again, the ancient journal of Brand-Shei's birth father in her pack. She ought to have known that reading it would put her in a worse mood, but she ended up doing so as soon as she returned to the tavern in Winterhold. It was a typical journal; Mehra read firsthand about the last two years Lymdrenn Tenvanni's life, from falling in love, to finding out he would become a father, to his hasty and joyful wedding.

Then, she read the last half of the journal. Mehra stopped in the middle of reading multiple times, forcing herself to keep it together. The mountain erupted, and after enduring burying thousands of their own, the Argonians invaded, slaughtering everyone associated with House Telvanni. There was no word on what happened to the main tower holds, and perhaps, this was for the better. Mehra didn't want to read an account of her mentor's death.

With a heavy heart, Mehra peered at the city from just inside the gate, watching as people headed home for the evening. She felt no pleasure in the sunset casting a glow around Riften, nor the still novel feeling of wind on her skin again. Behind her, a guard cleared her throat.

"No lollygagging," the woman groused, "I get you're sad about something but you're right in the middle of the street. Go get yourself some ale, girl, and maybe a man to spend the night with."

Mehra nodded half-heartedly and joined the mass of people wandering the streets. Each citizen appeared as exhausted as Mehra, and she kept an eye out for Brand-Shei. She found him back at his stall, packing his wares for the night. Mehra watched him for a while. She thought of what she could say to him about the strangers from his past, but nothing came to mind when she realized that her pain would be much worse than his. It wouldn't be much more than a set of facts to him. If she could make him feel something for House Telvanni – if she could tell him about Aryon and his brilliant vision for a progressive and inclusive house –

Brand-Shei looked up from his stand and smiled, silencing her tangled mess of thoughts. Against her will, the corners of her mouth moved into reciprocating the gesture. Mehra crossed the space of the wooden plaza.

"You look like you have news," Brand-Shei said.

"I do," she replied. "I don't know how long you have to talk, but there's a lot more I can tell you than what I found will."

"I have all evening," he replied. “I'd invite you back to the bunkhouse, but there's nowhere there to have a private discussion. Maybe we should rent a room at the Bee and Barb, though I'm sure that'll look just wonderful to everyone.”

Mehra laughed. "Maybe it's better to let them think that."

Brand-Shei pursed his lips. “Hm. That much information, then?”

“Too much information, even.”

He led her back through Riften toward the bustling tavern on the corner of a street. Entering together, Brand-Shei had her wait off to the side while he rented a room for them. The Argonian behind the bar didn't seem phased at all by the exchange of gold, but the dozens of occupants of the tavern looked between Mehra and Brand-Shei, whispering amongst themselves and grinning.

Shaking it off, Mehra waited until Brand-Shei turned from the bar and gave her a nod. She crossed the room and met him in the middle, ignoring catcalls and whistles as they made their way to the room together. Honestly, if Mehra thought he could spend a night outdoors at a camp, she would have taken him to the wilderness instead. As it was, she wanted to make sure he was comfortable enough to talk.

They entered the small, dimly lit room. Mehra took a seat on the bed. While Brand Shei pulled a wicker chair away from a nearby table, she dug through her bag and removed the tattered old journal.

He sat down across from her, eying the book in curiosity.

“This is your father's journal,” Mehra said. “I have no doubt about it.”

He received the book and stared at it in awe.

“There is so much I can tell you,” she continued. “I hope you forgive me, but I did read the book. I wanted to see if there were any hints at some former associates of mine.”

Brand-Shei looked up from the book. “Did you find anything?”

She shook her head, and he leaned forward to squeeze her hand and offer her an apology. The man was so genuine that she knew he wouldn't have fit in well with the rest of the House. But she had no doubt that Aryon would have liked him; Aryon liked an honest person.

“What I am about to tell you cannot leave this room,” she said. “I need your promise that you will keep my confidence.”

“Absolutely,” Brand-Shei replied. “I promise.”

Mehra swallowed and nodded. Well, she had to tell someone.

“I'm a Master-Wizard who went missing,” Mehra confessed. “I had a tower. Don't go looking me up unless you want a lot of people asking a lot of questions that you won't know the answer to.”

She told him nearly everything, from her apprenticeship with Aryon, her rise up the ranks, to her promotion to Master-Wizard. With each detail she recalled, Mehra's heart grew heavier with the realization that she threw away one of the best things that happened to her. Aryon would have adopted her, had he been given the chance. All the while, Brand-Shei listened carefully as an outsider looking in on a world that was so unique and foreign that Mehra was certain she couldn't properly put it into words.

She left out any mention of her path to becoming the Incarnate. Her identity as Nerevarine was meant for nobody. Instead, Mehra told him of each Master she knew: Dratha the man-hater, Therana the mad, Neloth the old and grouchy, Baladas the reluctant, Gothren the stubborn, Divayth the caring recluse, and Aryon the dreamer. Describing the keeps in detail, she told him of the Corprusarium, the immense size of Neloth's tower, Tel Naga, and many more of the great Telvanni works.

The light grew dimmer in the room, and Mehra glanced over to the struggling stub of a candle that occupied the nightstand. How many hours had it been?

Without prompting, Brand-Shei stood, search the nightstand, and retrieved a spare, just as the little flame died, plunging the room into darkness. Mehra summoned magic to her hand, cast candlelight by instinct, and took the candle from Brand-Shei. Her wide-eyed guest stared at the floating blob of light in wonder. This man would have known this spell and dozens others had fate been different.

“Is it dangerous?” he asked, marveling at the novice spell.

“No,” Mehra replied. “You can touch it if you want. It doesn't feel like anything, though.” She watched as he reached out and put his hand through it anyway, just to touch it.

“It feels like it isn't there,” Brand-Shei murmured. “But you've definitely altered something.”

Mehra gave a half-hearted nod. He instinctively knew that the spell was an alteration spell, and she wondered what kind of wizard he could have been. Shoving the thought aside, she took the new candle, placed it in its holder, and summoned a quick burst of flame to light it.

“So that's about it,” Mehra said. “Now, as far as the Pride of Tel Vos is concerned, I'm not sure what to make of it. I haven't heard of the Tenvanni family until now. Tel Vos itself was located inland, but I'm sure it's possible that the ship's main port was Vos. As far as where it was during the attack is anyone's guess; ships traveled between many of the Telvanni ports all the time.”

“That might bode well for your Master Aryon, then,” Brand-Shei offered.

“He was so prominent,” she sighed. “The only way they didn't get him would be if they ran out of power to go that far in, or if he wasn't on the island at the time.”

“For what it's worth,” he murmured, “I am sorry for your loss. I feel as if I know these people, at least in part.”

“Thank you,” Mehra replied. “I –”

Brand-Shei waited patiently for to finish her thought. Should she tell him about Solstheim? Mehra didn't think he'd make an attempt to go there; he seemed content where he was in life. She envied him in that regard.

“I heard that there's a Telvanni tower on Solstheim,” she sighed. “I might check it out. Maybe it's someone I know.”

“If you're too broke to buy a piece of cloth,” Brand-Shei said, “then you're too broke to buy passage to Solstheim. Let me pay your fare, at the very least.”

Without waiting for her to answer, he untied his coin purse from his waist. Mehra watched, completely speechless as he counted out around 800 gold and pressed it into her palm. His hand rested on top of hers, gripping it tightly.

“Go and find your people,” he pleaded. “Reconnect. Find happiness. If their situation is as dire as it sounds, they should be overjoyed at your return.”

Her vision blurred with tears, but Mehra refused to let them fall. It wasn't as simple as showing up on a Wizard's doorstep and saying hello. But she had to try; she needed closure, at the very least.

“I,” she swallowed, “thank you.”

“It's the least I can do,” Brand-Shei replied. “You gave me a piece of my past. All I ask is that if you do make contact, I'd like to know what comes of it. We can either raise a pint to your happiness or grief.”

“Sounds like a plan. I'll head to Windhelm in the morning.”

“Safe travels,” he said. “I'll leave so you can get some rest, then.”

Brand-Shei crept from the room, the door closing behind him with a quiet click. Mehra hunched over. She was alone again and raw from dredging up the past. The feeling of exhaustion that hit her was surprising but welcome. Sleep meant that she wouldn't have to think about anything. Taking her boots off, Mehra made herself comfortable in the bed, blew out the nearby candle, and closed her eyes.

Mercifully, there were no dreams to haunt her that night. There were no memories of the Tribunal nor Voryn Dagoth, betrayal or otherwise, and the ghosts of the Telvanni she aspired to become centuries ago allowed her to rest. Mehra simply existed at one moment, and awoke hours later.

Stretching in bed, Mehra yawned and prepared to greet the day. She stepped into her boots, laced them up, and left the room. Thankfully, the tavern was nearly empty; she had nobody to pester her about a supposed hookup from the night before. After eating a quick breakfast, Mehra left the tavern behind and stepped out onto the street.

Mehra walked toward the north gate to Riften and stopped at the sound of children laughing. She was by the orphanage again. The doors and windows were wide open, airing out the old building. Laundry hung on a nearby clothesline, children dashing around and throwing clothespins at each other.

“Let's just clean one room today,” a woman called. “Then we're going to spend the rest of the day playing. You've all been such great helpers and I am so proud!”

The children cheered and the sound of little feet thumping around inside the building echoed out into the street. Mehra smiled; the illegal contract had been worth it, if only to know that the children were safe and happy. She could tell Aventus to return to the orphanage, though Mehra felt the need to lie to him and tell him that Grelod had a heart attack.

And if there were negative consequences to her actions, then she would bear them. She'd protect what innocence the children had left. It was the least she could do for them, since they endured the aching loneliness that came from being an orphan.

Feeling much better about her impact on the world, Mehra left the city behind and headed to Windhelm.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Days later, off the coast of Solstheim

 

“Wake up,” a voice called. “We're about to dock.”

Mehra cracked her eyes open and stretched against the pile of flour and saltrice sacks that served as her makeshift bed. Gjalund Salt-Sage shook his head, glancing down at her.

“You've got quite the sleepin' ability, miss,” he chuckled. “It's always nice to have a passenger who's used to sea-travel.” Gjalund turned from her and watched carefully as his crew managed the boat toward Solstheim.

The boat skirted around melting chunks of ice and pulled into the dark harbor. At the edge of the horizon, a small sliver of light broke through thick clouds, signaling the beginning of a new day. Redoran construction made up the bulk of the town, making it completely unrecognizable from when Mehra last visited. Given the amount of ashfall around the place, she supposed that the Empire abandoned it outright in their typical fashion once it became of no use.

Mehra clenched her jaw. Apparently, they did the same with Morrowind. As the boat tied up at the harbor, the captain turned to her again.

“It doesn't look like much,” Gjalund said, “but Raven Rock is a good town of good people. Prospects aren't doing well here. Damn if they don't keep it clean, though. Even with the ash, the tavern's spotless.”

“I don't doubt it,” she replied. Redoran and Telvanni towns were clean most of the time; House pride extended from the Councils, to homes, and out into the streets across the whole of Vvardenfell. The same couldn't be said about Hlaalu, though, as evidenced by their hapless expansion. Still, Balmora was magnificent back in its day.

Mehra watched as a man exited the town walls and walked down the dock toward the boat, a single guard following close behind with a torch. Despite the early hour, his expensive clothing was pressed and orderly, his hair swept back from his face without a lock out of place.

Damned Redoran stuffiness.

Sure enough, he stopped precisely in front of the stairs leading up to the main dock and sized her up.

“You're new here, so I'll assume this is your first time to Raven Rock, Outlander,” he said. “I am Second Councilor Adril Arano. This is a Redoran town, in Morrowind territory.”

“Was here at the end of the Third Era, actually,” Mehra interrupted.

The Councilor lifted a brow at her. “The end of the Third Era?”

She nodded as the man looked her up and down with narrowed eyes.

“Your Master is over there by the Stone,” he frowned. “While we appreciate House Telvanni's efforts in closing the Oblivion gates, House Redoran expects that due courtesy is given while you visit our town.” He pointed over toward the nearby standing stone at the edge of the water.

“There's the Morrowind welcome I'm used to,” Mehra chuckled. “Friendlier than Windhelm, at any rate.”

Councilor Arano scowled. “Don't get me started on Windhelm.”

He offered his hand and helped her out of the boat, steadying her when she stumbled. “If you can help figure out what's going on at that obelisk, we would of course be grateful,” the Councilor sighed. “Your Master seems curious about it, at the least.”

She cast her eyes toward the standing stone that stood at the edge of the town. A group of people worked on a construction around the obelisk while a tall, slim Dunmer stood in observation, the tail of his robe fluttering in the wind. She felt her stomach clench in anxiety as she passed through the town to approach him.

Reaching the edge of town, Mehra stopped to see if she knew him. He wore the colors of the sunset, and combined with the swirled pattern on his robe, it was obvious that he was of House Telvanni. Everything from his stance to his manner of dress spoke of immense wealth and power.

Without a doubt, this was the Master Wizard she heard about. And against the backdrop of the run-down Redoran town, he looked magnificent. Her hair stood on end; he was ancient and even as rusty as she was, Mehra felt magical power rolling from him in waves. This was not a new wizard that came along after she left. Perhaps, he had his keep on the western mainland instead of Vvardenfell. It could explain why he survived.

She stepped closer and forced herself to attempt to relax. It was like the time she walked into the Council Chambers in Sadrith Mora to join, only she lacked the arrogance she had centuries prior. Yes, he was very powerful.

“Master Wizard?” Mehra said, afraid to disturb him.

The wizard turned to look at her, his expression bored. “I am indeed a Master, but my name isn't 'Wizard',” he drawled. “My name is Neloth, child.”

Mehra's eyes widened in shock. Neloth. She was starstruck by Neloth. He seemed so much younger than when she'd seen him in the Third Era. But he was a ghost from her past – and not the kind, fatherly Aryon she wanted to encounter. Still, she could maybe learn something from him, if he would hold a conversation with her.

“Neloth!” she smiled.

He frowned at her. Typical.

“It's me,” she said, “Mehra Dreloth. You named me Hortator. My keep was at Tel Uvirith.”

His brows creased in thought. Neloth cast a light spell over her head and pulled the silken scarf away from his face, revealing a charcoal colored beard. The courtesy of him removing his ash-covering wasn't lost on her; somehow, he was permitting a conversation. Perhaps, his renewed youth had something to do with it. When she last saw him, he had joint pain the likes of which made him partially immobile and hunched over.

“You're looking well,” Mehra said. “You must have done the ritual recently. You wear it nicely.”

“Nerevarine,” he frowned. “You look...”

Neloth trailed off, trying to think of an appropriate word. Mehra knew she was different, but it couldn't be by that much.

“Strangely domestic,” he concluded. “You look poor.”

Mehra sighed. She was poor. And, while she always found a way to make do, she found herself embarrassed by the simple armor she wore and the steel sword she carried. His robes were so elaborate and the ebony dagger at his side glistened with intricate engraving. She used to have nice things like those.

“My fortunes were all destroyed,” she said, “remember?”

She waited for him to shout at her, but instead, Neloth frowned.

“Indeed,” he snorted. “Gods only know where the Staff of Magnus went. You should have had me safekeep your belongings during your travels.”

Well, that wouldn't have worked. The other Councilors made it a game to steal from Neloth.

“Nothing to say in reply to that?” Neloth asked. “You're in poor form, semi-Master Wizard.”

Mehra shrugged. “Been dealing with some stuff,” she replied.

Neloth stared at her as if she were joking. Mehra supposed she could tell him what was going on, so at least someone who knew her before would understand.

“Apparently, I'm Dragonborn,” she sighed. “I can absorb dragon souls and use their power to learn dragon shouts.”

He tilted his head to the side in what she supposed was curiosity.

“And, why is this a problem?” Neloth asked.

“I'm likely the only person alive that can ensure that the dragons stay dead permanently,” Mehra murmured. Again she waited for him to yell at her, but instead, he stared at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. Likely, he had forgotten her almost entirely; it wasn't as if they knew each other outside of a few ten-minute conversations from two hundred years prior.

A shout sounded at the obelisk, and Neloth turned to watch a worker snap to their senses for a moment, then return to work.

“What's going on here?” she asked, motioning to the obelisk.

“I don't know yet,” he admitted. “It is fascinating, isn't it? Something is compelling them to do whatever work it is that they're doing.”

“There are similar structures all over the island,” Mehra said. “They're sacred to the Skaal. Each stone grants powers, like a typical standing stone.”

Neloth crossed his arms and huffed. “I really don't know who would bother with the Skaal in this manner. They're harmless barbarians.”

Mehra shrugged. Maybe it didn't have to do with the Skaal. Maybe, it had something to do with the stones instead.

“Every week or so,” Neloth said, “someone new comes under this stone's influence. I have one out near my tower, but so far, there haven't been any effects of the sort there.”

“Then whoever is working on this is either working slowly,” she mused, “or they're gathering strength.” If it was someone gathering strength, then they ought to be stopped – by someone other than her.

“It is fascinating,” Neloth murmured, “such incredible control the one on the other end has over these people. Imagine what I could do with that power.”

Mehra's stomach lurched. “What would you do?”

“I have no clue at the moment,” he snorted. “It wouldn't be something as mundane as world-domination. And if I find that the person behind this is using it for such purposes, I will be rather disappointed.”

They stood in silence, watching the construction at the obelisk.

“Dragonborn, though?” Neloth said. “We must engage in intercourse on the matter.”

“Really?” Mehra snorted. She couldn't help it.

Neloth turned from the obelisk and frowned.

“Childish, Nerevarine. Take my hand and I shall teleport us to Tel Mithryn. Let us leave this filthy Redoran town.”

Neloth clutched her wrist, his grip surprisingly strong. A quick glance down showed her that his hand, though scarred, didn't appear to be withered and old. He was impossibly youthful for a man who had lived thousands of years; he appeared middle-aged at most.

The familiar pull of magical transport hit her and in the blink of an eye, she was in Neloth's tower. It smelled of dirt, magic, and ash, making her long for her old tower at Uvirith's Grave.

“Let me have a look at you,” Neloth groused. He circled around her with narrowed eyes.

“You have let yourself go,” he concluded.

Mehra's shoulders slumped in defeat. She shouldn't have come here. It just reminded her of everything she'd lost.

“If you truly are the only one who can ensure that the dragons are permanently dead,” Neloth frowned, “then you damn well better suck it up and do your job.”

Worthless. She hadn't made much of an attempt to get herself back in proper form. If she had this attitude when Dagoth Ur threatened Morrowind, she never would have succeeded.

“You look like you haven't come near a pair of shears in at least ten years. Do you eat? Can you even cast now?”

Through blurred vision, Mehra saw a man in the corner of the room. He took a tentative step forward.

“Master, please,” he began, “Shouldn't we cheer –”

“Talvas, don't you dare speak over me.”

The man bit his lip and looked down at the floor.

Mehra's face heated in shame when the first tear spilled down her cheek.

“And now you're crying,” Neloth sighed. “I've kicked hundreds out of my tower for that offense, you know.”

Mehra couldn't help it. Everything he said was right.

A hand rested on her back, pushing her toward a chair. As soon as she sat down, Mehra collapsed into a sobbing heap.

“I was in prison for two hundred years,” she cried. “The mountain erupted. Everyone's dead. And now they want me to just take care of everything again and it's not going to matter.”

Behind her, Neloth tsked. “Yes, I suppose that's a shock of sorts.”

The young man came forward and sat across from her.

“What didn't matter?” he asked.

“Destroying the heart. It's all ash anyway.”

“Argonians invading is marginally better than ash vampires,” Neloth drawled.

“Voryn was insane, yeah,” she sniffed. “There's nothing divine about Corprus, that's for sure.”

“Wait,” Talvas gasped, “you're the Nerev–”

“You'll keep your mouth shut about it if you know what's good for you,” Neloth barked. Talvas nodded mutely, his eyes wide.

A man floated up to them, a tray in his hands. Neloth jerked his head toward her and told him to give the tea to her. Without question, the man – a servant, perhaps – placed a cup in front of her and poured the tea into it, steam rising up from both kettle and cup.

Tea? What for? She didn't want any tea. She wanted to be in a tower in Cyrodiil, frozen in time two hundred years ago with the only other person who understood the immense pressure to do the impossible. She didn't want prophecies, destiny, or a role to play.

Mehra couldn't do this again. Two centuries in jail left a lot of time to think, but deprived her of much-needed experience. The stakes were incredibly high this time, and if her instincts were anything to go by, they were much higher than they had been when she faced off against Dagoth. The dragons wanted to torch everything; at least with Dagoth Ur there would have been survivors of some sort. Akatosh chose a poor champion. Mehra stared down at the cup of tea, wondering how she could get out of her responsibilities.

Her hands clenched around the teacup, her breathing quickening as her tears renewed. She had to get out of it; she couldn't be trapped again, not like this.

“ –used to be a power hungry bitch. Killed the Archmagister just to ensure that you were appointed Hortator. Don't deny it; I know. That's what they do, when they're young and angry.”

She wasn't like that anymore.

“Are you listening, girl?” Neloth grumbled.

Mehra nodded and hunched over, but Neloth narrowed his eyes.

“You're not about to panic, are you?” Talvas asked, his voice soft.

She screwed her eyes shut, shaking her head 'no', then nodding immediately after.

“Nothing of what happened was your fault,” the apprentice said. “You shouldn't be upset, really. It's not your fault.”

“Talvas,” Neloth groused, “You live a more than few centuries, and you will have a meltdown or two. If you don't pick yourself up after it –and fast– you're dead. I saw it happen with countless wizards. Dead heroes do nobody any favors.”

“What do you mean?”

Focusing on them talking grounded her. Mehra slowed her breathing and unclenched her hands.

She heard Neloth sigh. Mehra still refused to open her eyes. She wanted to know the what and why, and part of her liked hearing Neloth speak. He was much kinder than she ever remembered him being – this with him in the middle of berating her.

“People quit when they live longer than average lives,” Neloth answered. “Saw it happen to some of the younger ones after the Red Year. Or, they go mad as Therana did.”

“And, it never happened to you?” Talvas asked.

Neloth took a long time to respond.

“Don't ever ask me that question again, apprentice.”

“Shouldn't we try to be nice and helpful, then?” Talvas pressed.

Mehra didn't have to see him to know that Neloth was scowling.

“Nonsense. The answer is to pick up your arse and move. Do you have any idea how old I am, boy? Hero she may be, but she is a child in comparison.”

“But, reconciling the memories of Nerevar with her own must be difficult.”

“I'm right here, you know,” she sighed. Their conversation stopped as she opened her eyes. Mehra stared down into the cup of tea and watched as the steam drifted upward.

“I– I apologize for my behavior. This was not the greeting I wanted to have.”

“Indeed.” Neloth crossed his arms. No swearing, no throwing her out of the tower. What happened to him in the two centuries while she was gone? People were terrified of this man. This was Neloth, Master Wizard of Sadrith Mora.

Why was he humoring her with a conversation and tea? Mehra took a sip of the tea, wincing as it burned her mouth.

“Don't apologize for your feelings,” Talvas said. “What's going on that you're so upset?”

Mehra shrugged. “Apparently, the Gods are running a two-for-one on heroes. They're too cheap to make another Dragonborn so they use me to get rid of the dragons as well.”

The corner of Neloth's mouth twitched. “Be angry, then. Sad never fixed anything.”

Mehra sighed and took another sip of the tea. It couldn't be that simple, and even if it were, anger was a dangerous motivator.

“I'm not angry enough yet,” she replied.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Being angry gets me in trouble. I'm keeping a lid on it.” Mehra pushed the tea to the side and put her head in her hands. She admitted to her history of tantrums in front of a very powerful and influential member of her House. Brilliant.

“What do you need to do, then?” Talvas asked. He was far too nice, and Mehra wondered how he ended up as Neloth's apprentice.

“Ideally, kill dragons and absorb their souls.” At least, that was what Mehra figured she ought to do. She didn't have any other leads.

Neloth snorted and crossed his arms. “Good. You're banned from here until you get over yourself.”

Mehra nodded, suddenly deflated. She supposed she ought to get going; there was nothing here for her, aside from broken dreams and reminders of what she could have been had she had the guts to stay around. Now that she was powerless, she had to leave through the front door like a common summoner.

She dragged her feet on the floor and slowly stood. None of this seemed fair, but deep down, Mehra knew it was. Her first quest was for riches and fame, and not for helping those who needed her the most. Maybe, it was meant to be a second chance of some sort.

“Master?” she called.

“What?” Neloth frowned.

“I wanted to apologize if I have ever wronged you.”

Neloth's frown grew. “Are you insane?”

Mehra shook her head. “I have such a long list of terrible things I have done, that I feel I must apologize.”

“You shit,” Neloth groused, “there is nothing you could have done that would have been of any consequence to me.”

Well, there was old Neloth. She was wondering when she'd catch a glimpse of the angry, old hermit.

“You can't be serious,” Talvas said. “You saved us from the blight.”

“And you will never know the evil that lived in my heart,” Mehra replied.

Neloth smirked. “Had your six hundred year old wizard killing spree a bit early, didn't you? They grow up so fast, these days.”

Mehra furrowed her brow in confusion, but Neloth waved her off.

“How many did you kill?” he asked.

Mehra stared down at the floor. “Five hundred, mostly Tsaesci soldiers.”

“That's all? Next time, do better.”

Before she had a chance to reply, Neloth shooed her toward the levitation beam. “Now get out,” he said. “I meant what I said. Don't come back until you're done feeling sorry for yourself. We are finished with talking until then.”

“Let me escort you,” Talvas said.

Mehra didn't protest as the apprentice led her toward the levitation beam. Stepping out into the air, the familiar magic allowed them to drift toward the ground. As soon as they left the tower, Mehra's shoulders hunched in defeat.

A hesitant hand found its way to her back, resting between her shoulder blades. “I just want to let you know,” Talvas said, “your worries are valid. There's no shame in being upset. I would be, too, if I were in your place, ma'am.”

Mehra smiled and turned to him. “You must stick out in the House dreadfully,” she said, “nobody who lives in a tower has kind manners like that. I get that I look like I'm in my twenties, but the kid treatment gets old. Even other Mer think I'm young.”

“Your appearance caught me off guard,” Talvas admitted. “But the prophecy did say that the Nerevarine is impervious to age and disease, so it makes sense. At least you were frozen in time at a good place, I suppose.”

“Being permanently old wouldn't be fun,” she chuckled.

Talvas nodded and looked back at the tower, a look of sadness crossing his face. “I'm sorry that Master Neloth was so unkind,” he murmured, “that's just his way. I think he's lonely, to be honest.”

“He had a reputation for being meaner, some time ago,” she shrugged. Mehra wasn't certain if Neloth was lonely, or if he'd seen enough to have a strong, angry opinion on everything. Regardless, she didn't want to see him again any time soon.

“How do I get back to Raven Rock from here?” Mehra asked, her voice small.

“Just down the road to the west,” he replied. “It's not too far.”

Mehra nodded. She supposed she ought to get going, but to where, she didn't know. Maybe she ought to go back to the Companions and sharpen up her skills before taking on a few more dragons. Then, there was crashing that Thalmor party for Delphine.

Mehra closed her eyes and sighed. She was going to get killed from that foolishness.

“Ma'am?”

“Hm?” Mehra cracked her eyes open to peer at Talvas.

“Do you need to rest a while?” he asked.

She smiled and shook her head. “I need to get going.”

Talvas nodded, trying to hide his disappointment. He likely grew up with stories of her exploits, from those she did for House Telvanni, to those she did for Morrowind at large. Mehra wondered what the stories said and if anyone told the truth of how much of a scumbag she'd been. Then, a bitter thought came to mind; Neloth was likely one of the few who knew.

“It was an honor to meet you, ma'am,” Talvas said, “and um, Azura guide your steps.”

Mehra smiled bitterly. “And you as well.”

She disappeared down the road toward Raven Rock, troubled thoughts leading her back to the small port. Out of anyone she could encounter from her past, Neloth was one of the last on her list of people she wanted to see. But, he changed, somehow.

Mehra remembered the day she entered his massive tower in Sadrith Mora to announce herself to him as a fellow Master. She expected a wizard similar to Divayth Fyr– white hair, but certainly not feeble or too old; wary but polite, and willing to share knowledge.

The first thing that came to her mind when she saw him was gold – gold everywhere. Neloth was a spitting, cursing old man covered in enchanted clothes, amulets, rings, and earrings. Unlike the other Masters, he seemed to have no problem with letting himself age – to the point where he was dangerously old, nonetheless.

Well, he'd taken care of that problem splendidly. Reversing his age had done some measure of good for his personality, though his accusations were scathing and cut to the core.

It hurt because it was true. And it hurt because even though she had a long time in jail to think about her attitude, Mehra still didn't like to be told what to do. He didn't know her.

But the more she thought of it, Mehra realized that she ought to have been in a tower, retraining her magical abilities rather than running a bunch of errands for people. But, she no longer had a tower.

As she traveled back to Windhelm, Mehra thought of how she could overcome this issue, but nothing came to mind. The best she could do was camp out in the wilderness and cast spells every which way, and hope that the native Nords didn't catch wind and go on a witch hunt. By the time she arrived at the Windhelm dock, she had no solution other than that.

Frustrated with her poor prospects, Mehra stormed back through Windhelm and out the front gate. She'd rather travel past sundown to sleep in a safer town. Hours later found Mehra hunched over a bowl of stew in Kynesgrove, safely away from Windhelm and far away from anyone remotely associated with House Telvanni.

The brief moment of peace was predictably ruined.

“Excuse me, Miss?”

Mehra looked up from her supper to the man in front of her. Why was she being bothered? Couldn't she be allowed to brood in peace?

“Got a letter for you,” he said. “Your hands only.”

Mehra froze. How would anyone know she was going to be there in Kynesgrove? Mehra took the letter from him and turned it over. The entire outside was blank, and a simple, nondescript seal held the letter closed.

“Did they say who it was from?”

The courier shook his head. “No,” he replied. “Shadowy person, though. Wore a cloak.”

Dammit, Delphine.

Mehra reached down to her coinpurse to give the fellow a tip for finding her in the dark. By the time she found the right amount of coin and looked up, the courier was gone. Shrugging, she put the coins back in her bag. It was no loss to her if the guy didn't want a tip.

Mehra glanced between the letter and her soup. The letter probably had confidential information in it, so she couldn't open it there in the mead hall while sitting among strangers. Sighing, she dug her spoon into the stew and ate it as quickly as possible, her peaceful dinner effectively ruined.

She finished the meal and retreated to her room with the letter in her hand. As soon as the door closed behind her, Mehra tossed her bag onto the floor, collapsed onto the bed, and broke the letter's seal with a huff.

Her brow furrowed as she read the single line written on the piece of paper:

'We know.'

Who knew? And, what did they know? Because as far as Mehra was concerned, it could be almost anything. An inky handprint lay beneath the message, confusing her all the more. It certainly wasn't Delphine, though the courier did say that a 'hooded figure' dropped off the letter.

Could it be the Thalmor? Mehra cursed to the empty room and tossed the letter in her bag. She was beginning to sound like Delphine. And even if the Thalmor knew about her, it would be in their best interests to keep her alive. It was in everyone's best interest, truth be told.

Well, there wasn't anything she could do about it. Frustrated, Mehra rolled over and blew out the candle on the nightstand, leaving her boots on in case she needed to make a quick escape.

When a hand clamped a damp rag over her mouth in the middle of the night, Mehra realized that there was no escape.

They knew.

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

 

_You sleep rather soundly, for a murderer – Lucien Lachance_

 

* * *

 

 

4E 201. Shivering Isles.

 

Sheogorath sighed for the three hundred and twenty fourth time that day. Dementia had a hold on him ever since he came home from his visit to the Pelagius wing in Solitude.

By the time he returned home, he remembered everything about Mehra, down to the taste of her lips and the smell of her sweat and the swing of her sword. In the grand scheme of things, their fight –over silly black robes, of all things – had just happened.

He didn't quite get why she was mad over it, or maybe, he'd forgotten. Erich couldn't rightly say.

In his upset, he shouted and shouted at everyone – including the Seducers and Saints – until they all left the throne room. The Dementia was strong today, squashing his poor mood further. Soon, he would have no mood left, and then it would all start over again with Mania. The cycle of madness was a wondrous thing.

He stared down at the intricately detailed at the carpet below, trying to remember how many times he'd had some greenmote and stared at it, and how many hours were spent doing so. There were flowers – or were they bunnies? Flower-bunnies? Killer flower-bunnies? Oh, he had to try to make some of those, as soon as his mood cleared.

He felt a tugging on his mind and furrowed his brow.

Someone was there.

Sheogorath looked up at the figure across the room. He was tall, with black skin and red markings. The daedra grinned broadly.

“The rumors were true!”

Erich narrowed his eyes.

“Hello, Sanguine,” he mumbled.

Sanguine clomped his way up to the throne, his arms outstretched, as if asking for a hug. When he reached him, his arms fell to his sides.

“Those rumors are two hundred years old,” Erich sighed. Three hundred and twenty five sighs.

“I remember this mortal body,” Sanguine said. He knelt down and shuffled to the side of the throne as Erich nodded.

“Beautiful,” he rasped. “Exquisite. You were quite a reveler back in the day.”

There was a hot, boozy breath on the side of his face, sharp teeth nibbling on the lobe of his ear. Sanguine wasn't going to eat that, was he? The mouth bit and sucked a trail down his neck, answering his question. Or, did it?

“Hello to you too,” Erich murmured.

Sanguine huffed and sat back on his haunches.

“You're no fun when Dementia has taken over your mind.”

Erich shrugged. He didn't remember talking to Sanguine as Sheogorath.

“You don't have the old Sheogorath's memories, do you?” Sanguine asked.

He shook his head. Just a few cobwebbed memories of his mortal life, some flashes of memories of Vivec and something about a moon, but not much else. He read up on everything his predecessor had done, but it wasn't as good as remembering doing them. The records were surprisingly well kept; Haskill must have done them. He certainly couldn't trust himself to do it neatly.

“I simply must welcome you to the club,” the daedra beamed.

Erich looked at him. Sanguine had quite the set of horns – two of them, actually. One was curly; one was more like cow's horns. They were black and rough and had ridges.

“You're quite horny, you know,” Erich mused.

Sanguine beamed. “Always.”

Erich burst out in an uncontrollable fit of laughter. Sanguine was horny! Always horny! And horned! His horns had horns!

But wouldn't horns with horns be antlers?

He furrowed his brow in thought. That was something to try out later as well. Erich wasn't in the mood for that one either.

Sanguine stood and crossed his arms in front of him.

“I wish to test you,” he declared. “I want to see how well this new Sheogorath makes mischief.”

Erich sighed –three hundred and twenty six. He felt like doing something mean, if he could just leave the palace. Maybe his feet were broken. Maybe he was broken.

“Do you think I could get the Nerevarine's soul from Azura?” he mused.

Sanguine seemed puzzled at this. Had he spoken the words properly? Was it gibberish again? Maybe Sanguine didn't speak gibberish.

“Did you know her when you were a mortal?” Sanguine countered.

“Yes!” Erich shouted. “No! Maybe! I thought I did?”

“Just steal her,” Sanguine shrugged. “Then we can fill her every orifice–”

“No!”

“–consensually.”

Erich narrowed his eyes. Sanguine was not his rival, but he was pushing it. Maybe his predecessor and Sanguine hadn't spoken in centuries, possibly even millennia. Was it awkward like this? And did Sanguine make passes at the other daedra?

No matter. If he didn't do this, he'd lose a lot of credibility. And then, who knew what would happen? They could gather forces inside his fringe!

“What is your test?”

“In Skyrim,” Sanguine said, “the mortals are fighting over whether Talos is a god. In the city of Windhelm there is a rebel leader, devoted to Talos and hateful of the Empire.”

Erich drummed his fingers on the armrest of his throne.

“There is also the matter of the dragons,” he continued. “The people are looking for a hero.”

“The hero is the Nerevarine,” Erich scowled. “Don't have to look anything up to know that one.”

Sanguine smiled sweetly, the tips of his fangs pressing in to his lower lip. Erich waved his hand, waiting for Sanguine to continue.

“Go to Windhelm,” he said. “I shall lure a dragon to attack the town. Fight and kill this dragon with incredible magic and swordsmanship. Use that spell you used to scar Mehrunes Dagon's face. And do it while dressed as a Champion of Cyrodiil, with a light spell cast on yourself. Let them think you are Talos, and shout some nonsense at them about your empire lasting forever.”

Erich rubbed the stubble on his chin in thought. If he appeared as a pro-Imperial Talos in front of the rebels, it would cause so much confusion and anger.

A single laugh burst out of his mouth.

“The catch is that you must have some greenmote first.”

Erich groaned and let out sigh number three hundred and twenty nine. Twenty-nine? Which number was it?

“I don't owe you a passing test to be who I am,” Erich said. “But, this sounds fun! Let's do it anyway!”

He shouted at the top of his lungs for Haskill, who opened the throne room door and strolled unhurried toward him.

“Greenmote!” Erich demanded. “Greenmote for myself and my guest. Bring enough so he can rub it in his eyes! And, on his nipples if he wants. I won't judge.”

Haskill snapped a finger, and a servant appeared with a platter of the green powder. He scampered toward the throne and bowed deeply, offering the powerful drug.

Erich took the platter, placed it in his lap, and dismissed the servant with a wave of his hand. He grabbed the single spoon and shoveled greenmote into his mouth. It dissolved slowly as he held his breath. He didn't want to waste the powder by choking on the stuff. As it turned into a paste, Sanguine grew visibly impatient.

He pulled the spoon from his mouth just in time for Sanguine to face plant onto the platter, gulping, huffing, and smearing himself all in the substance. It was getting everywhere; his pants, the throne, the air around them, and all down Sanguine's front.

“Can your clothes eat it, too?” Erich asked.

Sanguine pulled back with a gasp and a moan. “Should let the mortals have this stuff,” he said.

“There'd be no mortals left!” Erich laughed. “It kills 'em after three doses!”

The greenmote sang in his system. He'd do this Talos disguise, no problem. He was the Madgod, after all! And who better was there to pull of such a mad plan? None!

Sanguine's face fell back into the platter on his lap.

“That's dose number two!” Erich cried. “Good thing you are a daedra!”

There was a pause, and Sanguine had one last huff of the greenmote before standing again. Erich looked down, noting the circle of green powder on his thighs from the platter. Perhaps it was best to not let others see the pair of them, be-moted as they were.

“To Windhelm!” Sanguine shouted.

Erich laughed. He summoned his cane and tapped it on the ground. In a second, they were gone.

 

* * *

 

 

Windhelm was almost as he remembered it, some two hundred years ago.

Erich stood in the cold in his full Champion regalia, waiting for Sanguine and the dragon to show up. The slowly angering gaggle of guards behind him were about to make things more fascinating.

“You have some nerve!” one shouted. “This city is the Stormcloak capital! When Ulfric Stormcloak comes here, he will tear you apart!”

The Imperial dragon insignia taking up the entirety of his cape must have been what did it. They were practically mad with rage! Behind Erich, the gates to Windhelm opened.

“You must have a death wish,” a deep voice grumbled. “Skyrim is for the Nords, not you Imperial –”

Erich turned to face the man – presumably Ulfric himself – his light spell making it more difficult to see through the greenmote.

One of the guards behind the man gasped. “Mighty Talos,” he awed.

Another shook his head. “Can't be. Where's his beard?”

As if on cue, a roar sounded nearby. Erich turned again, this time to face the growing dot of dragon in the sky. A lone priest of Akatosh appeared at the end of the pathway leading to Windhelm. In a loud voice, the priest –it had to be Sanguine– declared the Empire as sacred, et cetera.

Erich quit listening in favor of charging up the Finger of the Mountain in order to direct it at the approaching dragon. Sparks reverberated through his body as the spell hummed to life. Clouds rolled in, blocking the sun.

He let loose and struck the dragon, knocking it out of the sky. It screamed on the way down, and he swore he heard the creature shout 'Sheogorath', but he wasn't quite certain. Dragons had a thick accent.

Wasting no time, he drew the blade at his side and charged the creature. So wounded it was from the spell that he was quite certain it wouldn't take much to finish it off.

That was when the spell hit him. His knees nearly buckled from its strength.

Behind a pillar, Sanguine, the false priest, cackled. He held hands on his knees as he gasped for air.

Erich walked stiffly toward the injured dragon, his armor rubbing uncomfortably against the new bulge in his pants.

“Sometimes, it happens for no reason, doesn't it?” Sanguine shouted. He wiped tears from his eyes.

“That's how you choose to interfere?” Erich grumbled. It wasn't the kind of chaos he was normally interested in, but he supposed there wasn't much he could do about it.

By the time he reached it, the dragon gathered its strength. The monster shouted a fireball at him, and Erich dodged to the right, swung his sword, and slit the dragon's throat. It thrashed as it bled; Erich stabbed again and again until it finally stopped moving.

Its skin melted off in a most fascinating way, leaving the dragon smoldering in the middle of the street. The dragon's soul didn't move from its spot. Erich narrowed his eyes at the creature. It wasn't really dead, which was quite problematic. Did Sanguine see this?

Behind him, the town cheered, hailing him as Talos. Everything went exactly as planned, minus his uncomfortable condition.

“Heed my words!” Erich shouted. “It is my will that the Empire last for all eternity!”

The 'priest' of Akatosh appeared at his side.

“Praise to the Dragonborn!” he continued. “Praise be to Mehra, most blessed Dunmer, Master of Tel Uvirith, savior twice-over!”

“Praise to Talos!” Sanguine interrupted. “And praise be to his most mighty spear!”

His hand roughly groped him, making him squeal in surprise. Not to be outdone, Erich summoned Wabbajack and thumped it against the ground.

“You're in trouble,” he murmured. The Prince of Debauchery didn't let go.

Cats and dogs fell from the sky, landing on roofs, in the lake, and all around, splattering in every delightful way imaginable. As the people of Windhelm screamed and ran for their homes, Erich shouted at their retreating backs.

“It is my will that the Empire last for all eternity!”

Sanguine waved his other hand, and suddenly, everyone was without clothes. Erich's eyes narrowed to slits.

“A naked man running is truly a strange sight,” he noted.

With that, Erich tapped Wabbajack on the ground again, turned the hay in the nearby stable to noodles, then tapped it again to transport them back to his palace in New Sheoth.

Erich burst out in laughter when they arrived, his previous melancholic attitude completely forgotten. Oh, he hadn't had fun like that in a long time.

“I haven't done something so marvelous since I became the Madgod,” he admitted.

Sanguine grinned next to him. “Remember the time you crashed that dinner party in Leyawiin for me?”

Erich chuckled, closed his eyes, and nodded. He had a problem with visiting daedric shrines during the Oblivion Crisis – and Sanguine's task was hilarious.

“I can't erase all of the memories of those naked old people from my mind,” Erich admitted.

Sanguine grinned.

“I watched you as you ran out of the room, completely naked,” he laughed. “You came back to the shrine wearing nothing but scratches from the woods. It was beautiful.”

The Prince of Debauchery was still holding him, and the spell still hadn't worn off. Just as Erich opened his mouth to speak, Sanguine interrupted.

“I propose an alliance,” he said. “You share greenmote, I'll share some whores, and we'll make some mischief every now and then. I know that you love a good party.” With that, he let go.

Erich laughed. He certainly did, even before he took the role of Madgod.

“So, in review,” Erich said, “Windhelm believes that an avatar of Talos came to their city dressed in full Imperial armor and slew a dragon in front of their town, while a priest of Akatosh proclaimed him and the Empire. Talos then declared the Dragonborn and Nerevarine as one savior-hero and obtained a spontaneous erection, which the priest grabbed and declared sacred. Then, cats and dogs rained from the sky, the town turned naked, and their hay is now noodles.”

“Sounds insane,” Sanguine nodded.

Erich frowned.

“It makes perfect sense to me,” he countered. “Especially the part about the noodles. The horses will prefer them anyhow.”

With a laugh, Sanguine clapped him on the shoulder.

Sheogorath supposed that this alliance would work out just fine.

“Did you see that, though?” Erich frowned. “That dragon was still alive when we left it.”

Sanguine nodded. “Its soul wouldn't leave its body. I figure a Dragonborn could do something with it. Maybe devour it. Sounds delicious.”

“We can't do that, can we?”

Sanguine laughed and clapped him on the back. “The question isn't 'can we?' but more 'why would we?’”

Sheogorath opened his mouth to reply but thought better of it. He didn't know if Sanguine would understand why he asked in the first place.

Because 'why would we?' had an uncomfortable answer that had everything to do with someone he'd forgotten long ago.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Elsewhere in Skyrim.

 

There were no regrets – not this time.

Each step the horse took jarred her, causing her hips to dig into a lumpy saddlebag. Blood pooled in her bound hands and feet, and her breath condensed inside the scratchy hood she wore. Certainly, the Morag Tong had her and she was to be punished for freelancing.

Grelod had to die. In a city where crime was overlooked, it was certain that her abuse of the children in the orphanage would never have been punished.

“You're really fighting that poison, aren't you?” a woman asked, her voice devoid of any trace of an accent. An amused chuckle came next before the hood loosened and a damp cloth was shoved over Mehra's nose and mouth.

The poison on the rag plunged her back into the twilight world that existed between sleep and consciousness as her body fought against it. Slowly, she sunk back under, giving one last ounce of fight before finally succumbing to sleep. Her final thought: she wasn't ready.

In the next instant, she was awake and unharmed. Mehra stumbled to her feet, her vision blurry. The heady scent of old, dried blood lay thick in the air. Blinking, she shook her head. She was inside a small shack somewhere, but where it was, she didn't know for certain. Her vision slowly cleared to reveal a large Nord woman lounging on top of a bookshelf, her face half covered with an assassin's cowl.

Mehra swallowed. The woman's colors weren't of the Morag Tong. This was a Dark Brotherhood assassin. She stole their kill.

Yet, her sword remained safely tucked into its scabbard at her side. Either this woman was a fool, or she was very confident in her plan.

"Sleep well?" the assassin asked, her voice identical to the woman who drugged her. Perhaps, she worked alone.

"I always sleep heavily," Mehra replied. "I'm assuming this is about Grelod."

The assassin smiled behind her mask. "It is indeed. It was a good kill; nobody would have known that the woman was assassinated from how she died. Those kinds of skills are to be admired. We could use more of those skills."

"You owe the Dark Brotherhood a kill," she said, "a kill that I've come to collect. Behind you are three people. One of them has a contract out on them. It's your job to kill one of them to satisfy the Night Mother."

"Make your choice," the assassin ordered. "Make your kill and you get to walk away."

Mehra drew her sword and turned around to see three hooded people, tied and kneeling in a line at the back of the room. Blood splattered the walls, old and thick; this was a slaughterhouse for their victims. She made her decision.

"Nerevar, guide me," Mehra mumbled, hoping that the spirit of the hero that lived inside her wouldn't fail her in her time of weakness.

The woman behind her chuckled. "Have you decided?"

"I have."

Mehra whirled around and lashed out at the assassin, her sword hacking into the back of the woman's knee. Tumbling from her perch on the bookshelf, the assassin screamed and lashed out with a curved dagger. Mehra narrowly dodged her swipe, countering with another of her own.

"You can be one of us!" the assassin shouted. "Who does this?"

The dagger nicked her arm, the sudden shock of pain causing Mehra to nearly drop her sword. By instinct, the Voice erupted from her mouth, blowing the assassin against the wall. Mehra didn't waste any time. She charged forward with her sword in hand, grabbed the assassin by the cowl, and stabbed her between the ribs.

"Incredible kill," the woman wheezed. She pitched forward, clutching her side. The curved dagger clattered to the ground, and Mehra leaned forward to pick it up. She knew this dagger.

"This is Erich Heartfire's dagger," she said, casting a sidelong glance at the woman on the ground.

"The last great Listener. I was next – no old rituals, just kills. Y-you knew him?"

"I did," Mehra said. "I regret that I couldn't save him." Save Erich from what, she couldn't say.

"Destroyed the Brotherhood twice, now," the assassin murmured, her eyes fluttering.

"You got in my way."

The woman didn't reply. Shaking her head, Mehra stepped behind her and slit her throat to ensure that she was absolutely dead. She glanced back at the intended victims in the back of the room and wondered what kinds of sick death games the Brotherhood made Erich play.

As she turned back toward the dead assassin, her vision blurred again. Fighting off a wave of nausea, Mehra searched the woman for assassin's blades, removed them, and tucked them into her armor. She'd never be without a concealed weapon again if she could help it.

The poison crawled its way through her system, numbing her hands as she set about her task. There was no mistaking it; the moment of clarity she had to fight off the Brotherhood assassin was not of her own power. Whether it was Nerevar rising within her to aid her fight, Azura, or something else, she couldn't say.

It wasn't her. It couldn't be her – not with the poison in her veins.

Mehra swallowed the bitter thought and turned again toward the intended victims. She had to be strong in order to make them feel safe. Mehra cast a weak healing spell, forcing the wound on her arm to pull together, but unable to heal it entirely. A scab would have to do.

"I'm going to set you free," she said, watching as all three visibly relaxed. "We can group together and find our way to safety. I'm going to do my damnedest to protect you."

Mehra cut their binds with Erich's dagger and removed their hoods, inspecting each for injury as best she could while still intoxicated. The Nord in the corner chuckled nervously as he looked at his fellow captives.

"A Khajiit, Imperial, Dunmer and a Nord," he mused. "Sounds like the beginning of an awful bar joke."

The Khajiit politely laughed while the Imperial woman scowled and crossed her arms. Mehra searched the cabin for weapons. There, tucked onto the bottom level of the bookshelf, was her bag. She grabbed it and dug through its contents. There was nothing out of order, but thievery likely didn't factor at all into the Dark Brotherhood's plans for her.

"Dark Brotherhood's sadly not a joke," she said. "I wish it were. One of you has a contract on you. She wanted me to choose who to kill. I think I made a good decision." She motioned toward the bloody corpse in the corner and the Imperial woman winced.

Sensing her discomfort, the Nord turned to her. "We can look outside first to make sure there's no gore out there, ma'am."

"I don't give a damn," she hissed. "I just want to go home."

"I can certainly agree with that," the Khajiit mumbled. "So, who is our savior?"

Mehra pursed her lips. "I don't wish to say my name."

"Fair enough," the cat shrugged. "Maybe it's best none of us share." The humans nodded in agreement.

With her search complete, Mehra shook her head. "No weapons here. We're going to have to travel carefully. Khajiit, be ready to use your claws if a fight breaks out."

He nodded and motioned toward the door. She had to be the leader; she was more equipped to deal with this than the others. Steeling herself, Mehra opened the door and looked around.

It was nighttime, possibly a day later than when she was abducted from her bed. Though the door was splattered in blood, the outside of the cabin remained free of anything that would give it away as a hideout.

The shack was situated on a small, muddy island dotted with ice. Mehra blinked as she stared off into the distance at the enormous city on a nearby cliff face.

Solitude. They were almost immediately next to Solitude.

Mehra let out a sigh of relief, her breath turning to mist in the air. She turned back toward the survivors still in the cabin.

"It's safe," she called. "Come out."

They stepped out onto the island, and Mehra pointed at the city, each intended victim sharing her relieved sigh. Together, they pushed a nearby rowboat into the water, climbed in, and rowed toward Solitude's docks. Mehra took turns rowing with the Khajiit and Nord, but soon found herself too exhausted to continue.

"Still drugged," she mumbled, her world spinning. The Nord nodded and took up her position without being asked.

They parted ways at the dock without many words. And while Mehra hoped that they would be safe, she knew better. One of the people she rescued was doomed. The Dark Brotherhood always made good on their marks, and there was nothing she could do to save them. Still, it was better than playing a god and killing one of them with her own hands.

Mehra stumbled her way into the city, her limbs sluggish. If she could get to the Winking Skeever, she'd be able to sleep it off.

"Drunk, elf?" a guard grumbled.

She startled and turned her head toward the man standing a few feet away from her. She hadn't noticed him.

“Are you drunk, elf?” he repeated, his patience growing thin.

"Close enough,” she replied, tripping over her own feet.

“Then get lost and sleep it off,” he grumbled. “If you're sucking skooma, you'd better get off that and fast.”

Mehra mumbled that she would be fine, and even though the guard seemed skeptical, he left her alone. Turning around, she attempted to reorient herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the sign to the Winking Skeever. Mehra turned again, trudged forward, and stumbled through the door.

The haze of the poison clouded her thoughts as she paid for her room and tripped up the stairs to clumsily slam the door to her rented room behind her. Collapsing onto the bed, Mehra closed her eyes.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, “whoever you are.”

Someone was watching over her, at the very least. Mehra just wished she knew who to thank, so she'd know who was on her side.

 

* * *

 

 

 Dragon Bridge wasn't much to look at, but its location was strategic to the defense of Solitude. As Mehra trudged her way into town, she pitied the people living there. Their opinion of the war wouldn't matter if a battle took place on their doorsteps.

A check in with a Solitude guard the next morning after her escape from the Dark Brotherhood told her to go to Dragon Bridge and speak to Commander Maro. The commander stationed at Dragon Bridge apparently hunted the rogue assassins for years. It was fortunate for her that the guard she spoke to didn't appear to have any knowledge of her poison-drunkenness from the night before.

Mehra had no concerns about any lasting effects from the poison; the Dark Brotherhood wanted her to join them, and damaging her wasn't conducive to their efforts. Mehra thumbed the hilt of Erich's dagger. Everywhere she went, there was something to remind her of him.

It couldn't be helped. She was bound to gain the attention of the Dark Brotherhood eventually, so Mehra figured that getting it out of the way was probably in her best interest. She ought to have known better, really; she did steal their contract. So long as they didn't know she was Morag Tong, she could maybe get away with it.

But, she did kill their leader, presumably.

Mehra swallowed and peered around the town. She didn't like thinking of the possible ramifications of what she did to the woman who snatched her out of her bed in the middle of the night.

“Back to living fast and dangerous,” she mumbled, shaking her head.

Her gaze landed on a small, newer building assembled with pine logs and a gleaming thatch roof. Imperial Legion banners hung outside the door, flapping meekly in the breeze. It wasn't much of an outpost, but it was a Legion presence – more than what the Stormcloaks could boast, at any rate. Still, she wouldn't put it past them to have a camp nearby; the rebels clearly weren't fools when it came to warfare.

Mehra stepped up onto the porch that lined the front of the building, opened the front door, and stepped inside. The sweet smell of fresh hay drifted down from the thatched roof above, mixed with pine from the rough-hewn boards beneath her feet. There weren't many soldiers here, and those who were hunched over bowls of stew in the corner, ignoring her entirely.

In the opposite corner of the room, a tanned man studied a set of maps, his brow creased in concentration. He rubbed his goatee absently as he looked at the map, then looked at a ledger book on his desk. Shaking his head, he took one last look at the map in front of him before glancing in her direction.

“This is an Imperial Legion outpost,” he said. “Do you have business here?”

“I do.”

Pursing his lips, the man stood. “So, what is it?” Deep brown eyes studied her, likely trying to figure her out.

“Are you Commander Maro?” she asked.

“I am.” His brow furrowed.

"I bear news on the Dark Brotherhood. I may have killed their leader."

Commander Maro's eyes widened in shock. "May have? What did this person look like?"

“Ash-blond Nord, female. Large blue eyes, blond hair. Scar on the left eyebrow. Powerful-looking. Wore black and red armor."

"This is a stroke of good fortune!" he laughed. "Sounds like Astrid. I've been tracking the Dark Brotherhood for years. We've recently found the password to their sanctuary. The time to strike is now."

Mehra nodded in agreement. "They will be in disarray without their leader," she said.

"Absolutely," the Commander replied. "The password to their sanctuary is "Silence, my brother"."

He took her over to his table, leaned over the map of Skyrim, and pointed to an X out in the forest west of Falkreath. "The sanctuary is here. The honor should be yours, my friend. Go in and take them out."

Mehra pursed her lips and stared at the window on the side of the building, watching errant motes of dust drift through a beam of sunlight. This man wanted to send a complete stranger alone into a den of assassins to kill them.

“And what makes you think I'm equipped to take them out on my own?” she asked.

Commander Maro sighed deeply and stared at her. “If you took out the strongest of them,” he said, “then I have faith that you can take care of the rest. I will have to trust in that; my hands are tied right now. You're probably tougher than you look.”

Mehra nodded mutely as the Commander clapped a hand on her shoulder.

“Now, if there isn't anything else you needed,” he said, “I've got to get back to work. When you've taken them out, come back here, and you will be rewarded handsomely.”

She nodded again and shuffled her way to the door. As she opened it and stepped out onto the porch in front of the outpost, Mehra swallowed.

She certainly wasted her time in going there. Mehra hoped that the lead from the guard would have given her some way to be safe from the Dark Brotherhood, but it was a dead one. She'd have better luck with tracking down the Morag Tong, if they were still in existence from the Red Year.

She wouldn't have been in this mess if she killed one of the kidnapped people, but Mehra refused to entertain the notion. Although it put her life in danger, she didn't regret her decision and the entity who watched over her must have approved as well.

As she made her way back to Whiterun, a thought came to her – one that wasn't her own:

Those who watched over her were many.

The thought gave her the strength to carry on.

 

* * *

 

4E 201. Solstheim.

 

The smell of potions, ancient tomes, and the musky, ashen smell of enchanting reminded him of home, though he was thousands of miles from the city he called home. It dulled the longing to return somewhat, though sometimes the conditions under which he studied were downright miserable.

Talvas hunched over a book and narrowed his eyes at the sheet of notes next to it. What was that letter, anyway?

He closed his eyes and rubbed them with his palms. Neloth's writing wasn't messy so much as it was overly ornate. Each note blended ancient Dunmeris with various words from other forgotten languages– whichever word was best suited to convey the Master's thought. Talvas blinked and stared down at the notes again, each looping character looking more like a decoration than anything else. He ought to have known that the ancient Master Wizard would write in his own language, archaic and forgotten though it was.

Talvas glanced back and watched as Master Neloth did – well, he really didn't know what Neloth was doing, truth be told. Though he endured mistreatment, the apprentice marveled at his Master's staggering brilliance. It was difficult to remind himself that Neloth was still mortal – at least, somewhat mortal.

The Nerevarine was just like everyone else as well, apparently.

Talvas glanced at the notes again and blinked.

“Master Neloth?”

Neloth grunted, granting Talvas the rare occurrence of a reply.

“Do you think the Nerevarine would know how to read these notes?”

“If she wasn't formally trained,” Neloth grumbled, “it isn't likely. And I doubt she was trained. Peasants don't read books.”

“I'd wager these notes are close to Chimeri,” Talvas pressed.

Master Neloth froze and furrowed his brow in thought. “Depends on how one defines reincarnation,” he shrugged. “Is she actually Nerevar reborn? Or, if her Dragonborn story is to be believed, does she merely house the soul of Nerevar? And, how does Nerevar interact with her consciousness?”

Fascinating questions, really. “It would make an interesting study,” he replied, “if she comes back, I'd love to ask her. What a strange fate for one soul.”

“Fate and destiny,” Neloth mused. “Glad I don't have to deal with that scripted nonsense.”

“Scripted. That's an interesting way to put it. Will you elaborate, Master?”

Neloth rolled his eyes. “Think about it. Even if you desire to do otherwise, you have to follow the script or everything will be ruined. And in her case, everyone likely dies in a gruesome manner. At any rate, I shall be quite cross if my tower gets torched.”

Talvas stared at the floor. If Master Neloth was correct – and he always was – then the fate of the world lay on the shoulders of one exhausted and emotionally drained person. Worry crept into the pit of his stomach. The entire thing was too much for an army of people, let alone a single wizard.

“Does it worry you, Master?”

Neloth stopped his writing, stared across the room at the levitation beam, and drummed his fingers on the table. Finally, Talvas asked a question which the Master seemed to strongly consider. He knew he was fighting an uphill battle in becoming Neloth's apprentice to begin with; rumor had it that he preferred to surround himself with female apprentices, and always appointed a female Mouth. Talvas didn't want to ponder the implications of why.

“No,” Neloth concluded, “a woman like that always comes out on top. Seems more clever this go around. Less impulsive, at the very least. I'm not worried in the least. Haven't worried in centuries; it's a foolish emotion.”

Oh. Alright, then. Talvas was tempted to ask Neloth if the Red Year ever made him worried, but he refrained on account that any mention of it seemed to make Neloth go apoplectic with rage.

“Would you have any idea what has caused this to happen with the dragons?”

“No clue,” Neloth admitted. “Writings with factual information on the Merethic era are hard to come by, and I've found it to be a useless study.”

“Do you think the Nerevarine would know?”

Master Neloth sighed and put his head in his hands. “Yes, Talvas,” he grumbled, “she may. And I foolishly let her walk out of the tower as she pleased.”

Talvas swallowed and nodded.

"She'll return,” Neloth shrugged. “She will most likely need ancient and obscure knowledge at some point on this destiny-fulfilling nonsense, and I am an expert on such things.”

“You seemed angry with her,” Talvas said. “Are you still angry?”

“Angry? No. Never was. I have a right to call someone on their foolishness, especially if they are a member of my House.”

“Please,” Talvas said, “tell me about her.”

Neloth narrowed his eyes at him, and Talvas cringed. He must have asked too much and overstepped his bounds.

“I know that look,” he frowned. “Talvas, don't even entertain the notion of that woman. Don't reach above your rank, Spellwright.”

Talvas widened his eyes in shock. “No, Master,” he protested, “I thought nothing of the sort. I promise.”

Attempt to court the Nerevarine herself? Absolutely not!

“You'd best be telling the truth,” Neloth scowled.

“I will swear an oath on the Mountain if I must,” Talvas replied.

Neloth chuckled and shook his head. “That isn't necessary,” he said. “You young ones are so dramatic.”

Varona drifted up the levitation beam with a tray of tea in her hands. Wordlessly, she placed it next to Neloth. She didn't spare him a glance and left as quickly and quietly as she arrived. Apparently she was still angry with Neloth for leaving her in Raven Rock.

Talvas couldn't blame her; it was a terrible thing to do, given that the roads had become dangerous. He wished he could tell her that it was because Neloth teleported the Nerevarine herself to the tower, but he was sworn to keep his mouth shut. And Talvas didn't want to know the repercussions of a broken promise to Master Neloth.

Perhaps, Master Mehra would return to them. He certainly hoped that Neloth hadn't scared her off.

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

_You resolve to continue pushing yourself. Perhaps there's more to you than you thought._

 

* * *

 

 

 

3E 433, House Telvanni Council Chambers

 

“It seems that this Council cannot agree. Master Neloth, you haven't spoken yet. Your vote will decide the outcome on whether we shall indict Aryon on count of corruption and inappropriate relations, or if we will accept his bid to be promoted to Archmagister.”

Inappropriate relations. Really, everyone had an affair with an apprentice every so often, and these fools didn't want to admit it. The hearing was a front for more ambitious intentions.

After a very public hearing with various 'witnesses', it became quite clear that this was not a trial on whether Aryon engaged in improper relations with his apprentice, so much as it was a trial to find something – anything – that would bar him from taking the position of Archmagister.

And it wasn't only some of the other Masters who had an issue with him – a modest amount from the ranks came forward in opposition. Neloth stared at the Mouth who addressed him and frowned. This entire meeting was ridiculous, and they dragged the two most important remaining members of the Council out for it – himself and Divayth Fyr. He wasn't certain what caused Fyr to finally join the Council, but there he was, in the midst of everyone he shunned. Maybe it had something to do with the upset that the Nerevarine caused within the House.

The Mouth looked at him expectantly, likely awaiting some sort of additional revelation or evidence. Neloth scowled; this entire thing was a waste of his time.

“I think my fellow House members have an unhealthy obsession over where Master Aryon puts his prick.”

A murmur rose up from the observation gallery. Good; at least they were listening to him.

“Is she a Redoran woman?” Neloth asked. “Is she a Hlaalu woman? No? Then why do you care? Heroes disappear quickly anyway.”

Aryon appeared relieved, yet still dissatisfied. He continued to maintain that he was innocent, despite evidence to the contrary.

“I concur,” Divayth nodded. “I doubt we shall see her again. Heroes disappear. I counsel Master Aryon to forget Master Mehra.”

Aryon threw his hands up in frustration. “But I never touched–”

“Furthermore,” Neloth interrupted, “if she turns out to be with child, I think marriage to the shrew would be a more fitting punishment than sanctions.”

He turned to level Aryon with a glare. “You want to be Archmagister?” he scoffed. “Then, fine! I don't give a damn! I want peace and quiet from you lot.”

The twinge of pain in his leg was sudden, but not unexpected. Neloth winced and leaned heavily on his cane. These fools wasted his precious time and energy. This meeting would have him exhausted for days.

The Mouth overseeing the trial nodded and crossed her arms. “To confirm; it appears that Master Neloth and Master Divayth Fyr have given assent to Master Aryon's claim over the position of Archmagister. A majority Council approval – a vote of two in this instance – will promote Master Aryon to Archmagister.”

Therana was mad; her vote didn't count. Neloth glanced over at Dratha, who glared back at him. She was highly opposed to Aryon taking the position, though it wouldn't effect her in the least. He scowled; her reasoning likely had to do with Aryon's gender more than his abilities.

Neloth grunted and waved his hand. He didn't care; he wanted to be sitting in a comfortable chair back in his tower. Even as Archmagister, Aryon couldn't make him do a damn thing he didn't want to do.

“Then it is settled,” the Mouth declared. “We hereby throw out the case of corruption and promote Master Aryon of Tel Vos to the most high position of Archmagister. Master Aryon, step forward.”

Neloth watched as a stunned Aryon took the vow of Archmagister. All around him, the lesser-ranked members of the House scowled; the man would likely be assassinated within a few months. As soon as the vows were completed, the Council dismissed and Aryon's supporters stepped forward to congratulate him.

Aryon's apprentice was unsurprisingly nowhere to be seen. The nasty thing disappeared as soon as she rid Morrowind of the Blight – likely because she had difficulty coming to terms with doing something helpful for once in her life.

Shaking his head, Neloth turned from the crowd and hobbled his way down the aisle to get back to his tower. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Divayth cast a recall spell and disappeared without a trace.

Neloth pursed his lips. He ought to do the same in order to ensure that he avoided conversation. He raised his hand to cast the spell.

Where was his mark, anyway?

His hand fell to his side. Well, he certainly couldn't cast a recall spell if he didn't remember where his last mark was placed. Even if it were inside his tower, it had been so long since he used it that he could end up recalling inside a wall.

Better to walk, then. He'd have to make a new mark as soon as he was back in his tower.

Neloth hobbled toward the entrance of the Council chambers. With each step, the twinge in his hip worsened until it felt as if his body were rejecting his leg. He ought to do something about it, really. Grumbling, he continued onward, pleased that the crowd parted at the very sight of him walking past. Many bowed in deference.

“Great Master,” a woman said, “it would be my honor to escort you to your tower, should you wish it.”

Neloth glanced over at the young beauty who bowed at the waist, her arm crossed over her chest. What would she want with an old man like him aside from power? There were so many young wizards out there who would be able to give her what she desired. Besides that, he was much too old to entertain women–

Escort him. She offered to escort him because he was feeble.

Clenching his jaw, Neloth ignored the woman and continued to make his escape. He reached the main door of the Council chambers and stepped out into a damp and dreary Sadrith Mora. People scuttled out from under the Council chamber's massive awning, ignoring everyone around them in favor of getting home. Rain; no wonder he ached so much that day.

“Master Neloth!” a voice called.

Neloth scowled and prepared to leave the awning. The desire to get away was stronger than his desire to stay warm and dry. As soon as he had his hand on the nearby railing, a set of footsteps drew closer. Neloth sighed; it was too late.

“Master Neloth,” Aryon said, “I appreciate your vote. But in regards to Mehra, you must know that I never –”

“Then you missed an opportunity,” Neloth chuckled. Really, the woman was so power hungry that it was a shock that she hadn't had her hands on every member of the Council.

“She is like a child to me,” he replied, “the thought never crossed my mind.”

Neloth sighed, leaned on his cane, and stared out at the scrambling, waterlogged city. Like a child? Did Aryon even know what he was saying? Did he lose sleep over this person? Did he personally attend to her injuries? Did he provide for her? Did he discipline her?

Did he blindingly love this girl, then? If he did, Neloth felt nothing but pity for Aryon for holding the deepest attachment for someone who would die and be gone forever.

“Magister Aryon, have you ever had children?”

“I have not, Master Neloth.”

“Then do not concern yourself with orphan girls,” he replied. Without having children, it was impossible for Aryon to understand. Well over two thousand years later, Neloth still remembered the bottomless heartache–

“Master Neloth, are you alright?”

“I am old,” he spat.

“You can fix that,” Aryon replied. He crossed his arms over his chest and cast a downward glance to his cane.

“A patch, Master Aryon,” Neloth grumbled. “It is but a cosmetic patch.”

He felt old. He ought to stay old. Maybe it was his time to wither. At the same time, he couldn't leave the House in disarray as it was.

“I do not know your intentions,” Aryon said, “but I do appreciate what you said today. And I appreciate your support.”

His support? What support? Someone had to do say something, and neither he nor Divayth wanted to be Archmagister, and he sure as hell didn't want Dratha taking the position. But that didn't mean that Aryon had more pull than he.

“I'll have you know,” Neloth groused, “that you are on a short leash in your position. When the first crisis comes along, you damn well better handle it, or I will get Divayth and we shall handle you ourselves.”

“You and Divayth talk?”

“No, but we aren't enemies.”

“He was my mentor, you know,” Aryon said.

Neloth rolled his eyes. “Mine too,” he groused, “so get in line. Tread carefully, Archmagister. And keep your pet on her leash.”

Aryon nodded, looked at the ground, and stuck his hands in his pockets. “That's fair,” he said. “But even though Mehra somewhat listens to me, I do not control her, especially not now. Even so, I would not send her against you. I want to work with you, but I will not be a puppet.”

He turned his eyes up to Neloth, his clenched jaw and stern gaze making the ancient wizard smirk. Aryon had fire; he'd give him that.

Still, he faced an uphill battle in getting the House to cooperate with him, and Neloth had no plans to make it easier on Aryon.

He'd have to earn his rank, the same as everyone else.

 

* * *

 

4E 201, Whiterun

 

Mehra traveled the long road back to Whiterun, completely ignoring the presence of the Brotherhood Sanctuary outside of Falkreath. Commander Maro wanted to destroy the assassins, but apparently didn’t think it worth the resources to see the job done. Either that, or he couldn't spare the manpower. She hoped it was the second – the Dark Brotherhood was a threat, and if they knew that the Commander knew their password, he'd be next on their list.

She would be a fool to step foot into the assassins' nest alone.

Trudging absent-mindedly through the streets, Mehra made her way back to Jorrvaskr, trying not to think too much that a group of barbarians were essentially her only positive contacts. They were good people in the least, and she could earn gold from them.

Mehra pursed her lips and stopped in her tracks. One couldn't defeat dragons with money. She had to do better.

“Thinking about something, dear?”

She jolted and turned to see the old woman she healed on her first visit to Whiterun.

“Oh, I didn't mean to startle you,” she said.

“It's no problem,” Mehra shrugged. “It's true though; I do have a lot on my mind.”

The old woman stepped forward and put a comforting arm around her shoulder. “Did you see it, then? The tower in the ash.”

Mehra froze.

“Oh, don't be alarmed, dear,” the woman chuckled. “I see many things. I may not understand their meaning, but I pass messages along where I see them. There is no danger in the choices you have made so far, but soon, you will have to make difficult decisions. Keep your resolve, dear. You will be lucky in ways you never imagined.”

“I've made some very stupid and dangerous decisions,” Mehra protested.

“Well, don't we all?” the woman said. “Sometimes, we play into the hands of the powers-that-be. I suspect you to be in less trouble than you think you may be.”

“Forgive me if I remain skeptical of that one,” Mehra replied, glancing to the side. She killed the leader of the Dark Brotherhood, after all.

“Focus on your training. For out of that will blossom something fragile which I cannot name, for fear of destroying it before it has a chance to grow.”

“Oh?”

“You'll get no more from me other than that,” the woman smiled. “Now please, don't let me keep you.”

With that, the old woman shooed her off. Mehra continued on her way to the Companions, skeptical of the entire thing. Yes, she had encountered a tower surrounded by ash, but such things were common for Dunmer. And really, what was the use of a vision if it may or may not come to pass? Mehra wanted facts, not visions. And the current set of facts she faced showed many obstacles for her to overcome.

She peered up the stairs at Jorrvaskr, the glow of the fading sun at her back. At the very least, she had the Companions. Trudging up the stairs, Mehra opened the door to see the group of sweaty warriors talking loudly at the table as they drank and had their evening meal. Unbidden words came to her mind:

Northern barbarians.

Mehra squashed the thought. The Companions proved that there was more to them than drinking and fighting, and given her past, she didn't deserve to be included in their number.

Really, what was she doing here? What was she doing anywhere?

Neloth's words came back to her, and it took Mehra all her strength to approach the table. The Companions greeted her with wide smiles, offering her a place to sit, none of them wise to her uncharitable thoughts. Aela stared at Mehra, her chin resting on her hand and a frown on her face.

“What ails you, shield-sister?”

Mehra's chin shook and she bit her lip. She wasn't sure what parts of her past she ought to share but she had to tell someone something.

“I need a drink,” she sighed. “Make that a few drinks. It is a long story.”

Farkas slid a large bottle of mead across the table and winked. Shaking her head, Mehra took a long drag, and told them a half-truth. She was a member of House Telvanni from Morrowind, and had been incarcerated. And though she deeply repented of her crimes, she forgot most of her skills and had lost all of her ambition in the process. Not a mention of her age, of course; a two-hundred and thirty three year old wizard would be young, yes, but not as young looking as she.

Then, she described how she met a well-respected member of her house who knew her from before, who saw that she let herself go and told her to suck it up and get back to her training.

And Mehra agreed with him. She didn't want to excuse herself. But the words stung and she was so deep in her pit that she didn't know how to get out.

The Companions listened in silence until the very end. By that time, she was quite drunk, and she hoped that everyone else was equally so.

Aela weaved in her seat as she leaned across the table. Vilkas stared after her with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, obviously attracted to the archer.

“What you need,” Aela slurred, “What you need, is practice. You need to do the spells thing. There's a college –”

“Yeah,” Farkas murmured. “Winterhold.”

Aela turned to shush him, her arm sliding across the table.

“M' talking,” she chided. “Now you go to Winterhold and practice. You're good. You can do annnny thing. Come back here for swords.”

Kodlak frowned as he stared across the table at nothing, his bearded chin resting on his palm. His hand toyed with a butter knife, turning it on end to tap against the table. A telltale flush of pink dusted the small part of his cheeks that showed.

Mehra stared at him and sobered; the old Nord didn't like magic. Without a doubt, he'd kick her out with the knowledge that she was a wizard in disguise.

“We are not magic users,” he said. “But you've proven honorable and you can fare well in a fair fight with weapons. You know much, and haven't used it for ill gain. Aela is correct. Go and study, and continue with virtue.”

Vilkas fidgeted in his seat. “Forgive me, but I did not expect you to say that.”

Mehra nodded in agreement, the pleasant feeling from the mead returning slowly. If she had the Harbinger's blessing to study magic elsewhere, then certainly it was a good sign.

“I trust my instincts,” Kodlak shrugged. “This one's a keeper.”

Farkas nodded in agreement while Athis shook his head off to the side.

“Telvanni? Really?” Athis asked. “Why did you join here, then?”

“Imma spellsword,” Mehra smiled. “Spells and swords.”

Athis nodded, and Mehra noticed for the second time that he was actually quite handsome. The errant thought sobered her; she had to switch to water, and fast.

She turned to look at everyone at the table. “Telvanni is a bad word in some circles. Please don't tell anyone about this. I'm trusting all of you.”

If she were honest, it wasn't so much that House Telvanni was a bad name, so much as it had to do with the Nords' distrust of magic. She didn't know what the people of Whiterun would think, much less anyone in the other holds.

“I don't care who you are,” Farkas shrugged. “You can fight like hell and that's good enough for me.”

The others nodded in agreement, while Njada openly scowled. As the conversation changed and Mehra sipped on a tankard filled with water, she felt the shield-maiden's eyes on her. Eventually, it was too much, and Mehra excused herself to get some fresh air out at the forge.

Standing up, she was hit with a wave of dizziness that signaled that she was more drunk than she thought. Mehra made her way across the room, up the stairs, and out the door into the cold night. Glancing up at the forge, she froze.

A man sat on the ledge in front of the forge, his unmistakable white hair glistening in the moonlight. The two hundred years out of fashion woodsman cape he wore puddled around him, his leather armor creaking as he uncrossed his legs and turned toward her.

“Erich,” she breathed. The barely perceptible word caught in the air, turning to mist in the cold.

He turned his eerie eyes toward her and smiled. “Hey, dartwing.”

Mehra swallowed, attempting to stuff her feelings back down. This wasn't Erich. It couldn't be him.

“It really is me,” he said. “Come here. Let's chat. We should catch up.”

She nodded mutely, her shaking legs taking her around and up the stairs to the ledge on which he sat. Ever the gentleman, he stood, took her hand, and helped her balance as she sat down on the ledge before resuming his seated position. Mehra peered up into his amber eyes and frowned. The color was correct, but it was off, somehow. It was luminescent– glowing in the moonlight, or perhaps, giving off its own light. And his pupils–

His pupils were slits.

Demon.

“Sheogorath, then?” Mehra asked, her expression souring.

“I chose it,” he said. “Just listen to me.”

“Why should I?”

The daedra scowled. “You damn well know why.”

Mehra shrunk back in fear and his face softened.

“Dammit, I just,” he sighed, “I just want you to listen, please.” He ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

“I'm listening, then,” Mehra mumbled.

“Excellent!”

The sudden shout made her jump and he burst out in laughter.

“Weren't expecting that, were ya?” he laughed. “That's the mania. Or the dementia. Or, perhaps, both? Anyway, the answer is that I am Erich Heartfire. I am also Sheogorath. We are the same.”

Mehra sighed. “That doesn't explain much.”

“Well, it's quite simple really,” he shrugged. “I freed Jyggalag from his curse and became the new Sheogorath.”

“And Jyggalag is?”

“Prince of Order. Boring fellow. I mean, really boring. He was so boring – or was that powerful? – that the other Princes cursed him to be Sheogorath. We broke up and went our separate ways about two centuries ago.”

Mehra furrowed her brow and stared into his eyes. How could she know this was the truth?

“So I am Sheogorath,” he said. “I am also Erich. Does that make sense, dartwing?”

Dartwing. That was his name for her. Nobody else could have known this name. Her hand drifted up to cup the side of his face. She always said that he'd get himself into serious trouble someday.

“My god, Erich.”

“I can be if you want me to,” he chuckled.

Mehra snorted. “Get in line. There's a half-dozen of you wanting a piece of me, including Akatosh.”

“Dragonborn?” Erich asked, his expression suddenly serious.

Mehra nodded, afraid to voice her fears out loud.

“Twice isn't right,” he frowned. “You did your job once already.”

She waited for him to settle his arm across her shoulders, but the touch never came. They changed too much in the past two centuries to warrant picking up where they left off. And even if they did, she needed to know where his loyalties lay. They had unfinished business, in that regard. But, what would a Daedric Prince care for the Dark Brotherhood? The Prince of Madness had nothing to do with such things.

Mehra unsheathed the dagger at her side and showed it to him, noting how his expression saddened.

“Blade of Woe,” he said. “Lucien gave that dagger to me. Looks like it’s in excellent condition.”

“Do you want it back?”

Erich shook his head. “I'm sure you'll have better use for it than me. And I like the idea of that blade going on an adventure again. I trust you with it. It's a very loyal dagger.”

He knew the blade – yet more evidence that this was Erich. Still, they had to bury their fight, even if it was just to find out where they stood on their opposing beliefs.

“So, Listener,” Mehra frowned, “Do you talk to a certain 'Woman of the Night' anymore?” She was leery of even using the Night Mother's name in conversation, for fear that she'd be tracked down by its utterance.

“Oh,” Erich chuckled, “we broke up. Don't worry about it. I'm seeing other people now.”

“Well, I am worried. I killed their current Listener.”

He let out a low whistle. “Yeah, that'll do it. Then again, you may have been unwittingly used as a purging tool.”

Mehra furrowed her brow.

“Oh, yes!” Erich laughed. “You know that she wouldn't let her current Listener get killed if she was truly happy with them.”

“Then I'm unhappy with it,” she replied. “I'm sick of powerful entities using me to do their dirty work.”

Erich sighed and lay down on his back against the hard stone, cradling his head in his hands. He looked like he did when she first met him, but there was something about him that was infinitely more beautiful, and infinitely terrifying.

Divinity. Erich ascended to godhood. He knew secrets and held power that no mortal was meant to bear. Perhaps, this Jyggalag trusted Erich with that knowledge when he allowed him to take over the title of Prince of Madness.

“When you made your decision to become Madgod,” Mehra asked, “Weren't you afraid of being unmade?

Erich closed his eyes. “I think that at the time, I wanted to be unmade.”

Mehra pursed her lips and stared up at the sky. Her rashness – her absolute anger – drove a man to attempt to unmake himself.

“It was a lot of things,” Erich said. “You were right about the Brotherhood. I questioned the authority and power of the Night Mother long before you found out. How could she claim to love her children, yet allow them to suffer and die without her intervention?”

“I think a lot of people ask those kinds of questions.”

He screwed his eyes shut and laughed. “You're so serious, Mehra.”

“I've got a lot to be serious about.”

Erich grunted and nodded. Pursing her lips, Mehra glanced over at him.

“You wouldn't happen to know anything about these dragons, would you?” she asked.

“Nothing useful,” he replied. “I haven't been in the loop for a while.”

Erich turned toward her, his eyes scanning her body. “You're always lovely,” he said, “but –”

“I'm in bad shape,” she interrupted. “Right?”

He cringed and nodded.

Mehra shrugged. “It's the truth,” she said. “I spent the past two hundred years in an Akaviri prison. I went on a murder spree there. When I was locked up, I had a lot of time to think about how I'd chosen to live my life. I have many regrets. The Companions suggested I go to Winterhold to train. I think I might have to do that, honestly. I've forgotten nearly everything I learned.”

“Winterhold,” he mused, “I fought with my parents to apply there. My cousin got in, but they just didn't like magic. It didn't matter what Auntie did for –”

Erich squinted up at the sky. “Forgot his name. You'd think I'd have remembered it, given how many times I heard it. Ma wanted me to try. Da wasn't into it at all. His word was law.”

She knew the rest of the story. He ran away from farm life to the Imperial City, doing small theft jobs along the Waterfront to try to support himself. Fate led him there, the same as it dragged her to Morrowind after she committed a string of murders in Daggerfall.

A long silence filled the air as a gust of a cool breeze blew by. The Madgod closed his eyes and breathed deeply. After some time, he opened his eyes to stare at the night sky.

“They're mud in the back of my mind,” he whispered. “A pile of sticks and mud that became ancient ruins and the names are worn down by the years. The cobwebs burn in the light of blissful madness. I look into the window of Erich's past life and see from the outside. There is no pain here.”

Mehra leaned back and stared up at the sky as well. Erich's implications were plain to her: Their time together meant nothing to him anymore. He was a new entity altogether.

It was better this way.

“Ivarstead's very superstitious,” Erich said, “with it being at the base of the mountain there. Everyone was wary of the Greybeards.”

“Still are.”

He nodded. “Sounds about right. Nords change slowly. I suppose I'm the exception.”

Erich turned to her, his expression sad. “Mehra, you must know that I'm not remotely the man I once was. We can't go on as we were.”

Mehra closed her eyes and nodded. She knew this. Surprisingly, it didn't hurt as much as she thought it would. Opening her eyes, she watched as lights snuffed out one by one inside Jorrvaskr. The Companions were settling in for the night.

“Hm, you need to sleep, don't you?” Erich mumbled. “Haven't needed to do that one in a while. I do it for fun, sometimes.”

“I should,” Mehra replied. “I've got to leave for Winterhold tomorrow.”

He sat up and flashed her a brilliant smile. “You'll do just fine,” he said. “I'm certain of it. And when I'm certain of something, well – let's just say that I know a lot more than I used to.”

Erich winked, stood, and offered to help her to her feet. His huge Nord hand encompassed hers, the callouses on his fingertips scratching along the top of her hand. He wore gloves with the fingertips cut off – part of his assassin-thief's attire – and she wondered if it was out of habit, or if he put on an appearance for her.

“I'm also certain that you're going to sleep well tonight,” Erich added, his voice a low murmur.

A wave of drowsiness hit her the instant he words left his mouth. Magic, perhaps? Daedric persuasion? Her eyelids fluttered as she fought to keep them open, an arm wrapping around her shoulder. Erich held her as he levitated them over the ledge of the Skyforge to land gently on the ground of the training yard. Through a sleepy haze, she felt him gently hug her before stepping back.

“Go on to bed now,” he said.

Mhm, yes. She was going to bed. Mehra shuffled toward the awning, intent on getting inside, going downstairs, and falling face first into her bunk.

Mehra blinked hard, the implanted suggestion dimming in her mind. She ought to say goodbye, at least.

Turning around, she found that Erich was gone. Mehra slumped and trudged back toward Jorrvaskr.

Though the drowsiness lay thick in her mind, Mehra couldn't help but smile. There was someone watching out for her.

Maybe the old seer was right. Maybe she would be lucky, after all.


	11. Chapter 11

A/n: This chapter mentions an in-game book from Morrowind called “Realizations of Acrobacy”. You can find it on UESP (the Unofficial Elder Scrolls Pages) online if you search for it. It's not necessary to understand the chapter, but I'm sure some of you will find it interesting. Keep in mind that at the time of its writing (before the events of Morrowind), the Dunmer felt themselves incredibly superior to other races, in particular the beast races whom they enslaved (not that they don't have feelings of superiority now, but it was presumably more back then), and other races generally thought of Morrowind as a filthy backwater country, as their culture was completely misunderstood. As with many of the in-game books, it is unknown how accurate “Realizations of Acrobacy” really is, if at all.

I hope you all enjoy this longer-than-average chapter :)

* * *

 

 

_You realize that all your life you have been coasting along as if you were in a dream. Suddenly, facing the trials of the last few days, you have come alive._

 

* * *

 

 

4E 0. Cyrodiil.

 

They lay among a patch of mountain flowers, a sweet fragrance drifting up from blue blossoms to mix with the clean scent of the nearby brook. Clouds lazily rolled over the Jerall Mountains, big and billowy. Her unlikely company stretched against the flowers, his long, muscular legs tensing.

Mehra found herself licking her lips at the sight of him. She wasn't one for barbarian men, but this one was different. He liked reading, more so than she, and his desire to learn about other cultures – in particular, the culture of the Dunmer – was refreshing. Erich never let a careless word leave his mouth, though he loved to tell her stories of his adventures.

“I was absolutely silly over that man,” he said. “Lucien was dashing and brooding and mysterious and so serious.”

Yes, Lucien Lachance. Erich made it sound as if his world revolved around the man, and to some extent, she supposed it did at one point. Lucien; an Imperial man with a Breton name. The way Erich described him conjured an image of a short, tanned man with dark, almost black eyes framed by long eyelashes. Perhaps, he had long hair and a goatee and wore his tunics open at the chest – the sort of pirate-rogue look that some working class Imperials tended to go for.

“Do you still love him?”

“Love?” Erich frowned. “No, it couldn't have been love. It was a silly attraction.”

She doubted it, but said nothing. His denial was his business, and it didn't matter much because the man was dead anyway. Mehra turned her head to the side to eye the white stubble that grew along the ridge of Erich's jaw, and the pool of long, white hair that fanned out beneath him. White wasn't a natural color for Nords, was it? There was light blonde, and this absolutely wasn't blonde. But Erich certainly wasn't an elder. She accepted it at first glance, but now that she had a good look at it, his hair didn't make any sense.

“Your hair is white.”

He blinked, grabbed a section of hair, and brought it in front of his face. “Yeah, I forget that sometimes,” Erich said.

“So, it wasn't always white?” she asked.

Erich shook his head and sat up. His hands trailed down to the hem of his tunic, tugging his shirt over his head to reveal a massive shock scar that branched across his torso and back.

“I got into a bit of trouble,” he explained. “Did an errand for the Mages Guild, and I may have activated something at some Ayleid ruins. I touched a broken pillar and got struck by lightning. Something must have happened though; I learned the spell that struck me.”

Mehra's eyes widened. “You're lucky to be alive.”

“Yep!” Erich laughed. “Just lost all my hair in the process. It used to be red but it grew back in white. Lightning must have killed the pigment or something.”

"What is this spell, then?” she asked.

Mehra sat up as he stood, watching him intently. Erich walked a fair distance from her and turned around.

“It's called 'Finger of the Mountain',” he said. “It's um, quite a dangerous spell. So you cast it like this.”

Erich moved his arms through the air. Slowly, he wove branches of shock magic with his hands, and his hair drifted out from his body in response to the static. Lightning arced between his hands, crackling and popping.

Erich winced as a particularly large branch of electricity ran down his spine. What was he doing, channeling his magicka in such a manner?

With a flip of his hands, the spell tore loose from his body in a flash of light so bright that it caused Mehra to slam her eyes shut. The following crack and boom made her ears ring.

There was no way that he should have winced had he cast properly. Erich was going to kill himself casting that way.

When the light cleared, Mehra opened her eyes. Blinking away spots, she saw Erich miraculously still standing.

“Erich Heartfire!” She shouted, “Don't you dare cast like that again!”

He laughed and turned around. Erich reached up and rubbed blood away from his nose with the back of his hand. Behind him, a swath of the forest lay in charred ruin.

What in Azura's name was that spell? Mehra ran forward, intent on knocking some sense into his head.

“Spells are always weaker if you cast them safely,” Erich grumbled. “They need some oomph if you really want to take something out.”

Mehra pursed her lips. “If you channel the destruction properly,” she said, “you won't be hurt. Then you can work on your strength. I am not leaving here until I am certain that you know what you're doing.”

“You can try to teach me,” he shrugged. “Lots of people tried but it never stuck. Even Martin tried.”

That wasn't good enough for her. Mehra had to make sure that he wouldn't kill himself casting. As it was, he cheated death every time he cast, especially whenever he cast the Finger of the Mountain.

She felt fear. She was worried about losing him.

Mehra knew this man for a only few weeks. Surely, she wasn't attached.

 

* * *

 

 

4E 201. Winterhold.

 

After their talk, it was somewhat easier to grasp the idea that Erich was no longer Erich.

She had been in love with the man Erich once was, and Mehra knew that Erich the daedric Lord could never compare. So she let it go– shocking herself with how easy it was to do so.

Love wasn't for her anymore. She had seen far too much and would always be too old for anyone she'd meet on the mortal plane. Was this why Aryon was alone when she met him? Could it be why Neloth was so short-tempered?

Her stomach twisted at the thought of Neloth. In all his harsh words, he was correct. And though she knew this, it still stung.

Mehra needed to cool off and focus on training. If he told her that she couldn't return until she changed, then she would. Mehra would retrain herself and return to show him that she was worthy of House Telvanni.

She wished it had been Divayth on Solstheim instead, but thought better of it when she remembered her clumsy attempts to seduce him. Looking back on it, he had to have known what she was up to. She was fortunate, then, that he ignored it and took pity on her when she showed up at his doorstep with corprus. He understood her and her selfishness. Maybe, he believed that she was the Incarnate. She certainly believed she was after her corprus was cured. Back then, Mehra believed that she could do anything – maybe even elevate herself to godhood as the Tribunal did.

Saving the world had never been about her. Even her time in prison didn't teach her that it hadn't been about her. It took going out and seeing people for who they were to realize that it was about everyone, and she was only a small fraction of everyone.

Mehra swallowed. Neloth told her to get over herself, and he was correct. He was angry and eccentric, but Mehra wondered at the wisdom – not just the knowledge – behind his thousands of years of life.

There was knowledge here in Winterhold as well, though as she studied, Mehra realized that she was quickly remembering most of what she'd forgotten in prison.

She waited as the professor finished going over course materials for her final class of the week– Introduction to Enchanting. All the while, Ancano, a Thalmor representative, waited in the back of every classroom, watching the proceedings. Everyone was given strict instruction to not disturb him.

“I have written a primer on enchanting,” Professor Sergius said. “It is available in the Arcaneum. There should be enough copies for this class. As we continue, you will read various other writings which will be assigned. If you learn quickly enough, we will briefly touch on some of the writings of Master Neloth of House Telvanni; however, most of his writing is advanced-level enchanting.”

Mehra opened her mouth and shut it immediately. What was she going to say? 'He threw me out of his tower recently'? 'He's really tall in person'? 'He's actually quite attractive in a 'daddy' kind of way'?

She cleared her throat and looked around the room. Really, was she that hard-up that she found Neloth attractive? No way in hell was she going to share that thought with anyone.

To her right, one of Mehra's classmates – another Dunmer woman – fought to hide a grin at the mention of a Telvanni Master. With his outline done, Professor Sergius dismissed the class and told them to get to know each other. Immediately, her classmate turned to pin her with a curious look.

“Looks like we have a few classes together,” she said. “I'm not here to make friends, but it is good to see another Dunmer studying. My name's Brelyna.”

“I'm Mehra,” she replied, offering her hand to the shorter – and much younger – woman.

“Mehra,” Brelyna nodded, “so, you tested out of Intro to Destruction too?”

“Yes,” she replied. “And I'm glad I did.” The beginning destruction course was very basic, and Mehra was thankful that she remembered more than a mere ember spell.

“I hope this class teaches me some new things,” Brelyna said. “And I really hope we end up reading some of Master Neloth's writings. Our people have a lot to offer to the world, especially the world of magic. Say what you want about House Telvanni, but some of the greatest mages in history came from there – Master Neloth being one of them.”

“I agree,” she nodded. “Also, anything by Divayth Fyr would be a good study.”

Mehra sensed a bit of House pride from Brelyna, but didn't ask on account of the Thalmor operative lurking in the corner. He pushed off from the wall and approached them directly.

“Ladies, do not discount the great Aldmeri mages as well,” he said. “Telvanni mages are known for experiments on the profane, as well as dabbling in necromancy.”

Mehra turned to give him the sweetest smile she could muster. Neloth was worth at least twenty of this man. “I agree,” she replied, “there are certainly great mages from all races. And that's what's so wonderful about studying magic; nearly anyone can see themselves represented by one of the greats. If you can see someone like yourself achieving success, it feels more attainable. Representation matters.”

“I doubt anyone here will ever be represented by the great Masters of old,” Ancano drawled. He turned on his heel and made his way to the door. As soon as he reached the threshold, Mehra offered him her parting words:

“You stand here as well.”

The Thalmor's step faltered, but he continued as if he didn't hear her remark. As soon as he disappeared, Brelyna turned to her with wide eyes.

"I cannot believe you just said that,” she gasped.

“Just stating facts,” Mehra shrugged. “The odds that anyone here will be remembered forever are quite low.” Technically, she was a great Master once as well, though she had nothing to do with the academic study of magic. Her interest in the Third Era was solely directed at which spells she could cast to become more powerful and dangerous. Now that she knew that she had an eternity– provided a dragon didn't snatch her off the ground – Mehra was curious about the particulars of magic.

“Wow, you're depressing,” Brelyna snorted.

“It is true though,” Mehra replied.

Together, they gathered their things and left the room to head toward the Hall of Attainment.

“Are you excited about the field study on Morndas?” Brelyna asked.

“It will be wonderful to see what we can find,” Mehra lied. Honestly, it was another crawl through an ancient ruin. She did dozens in Morrowind, dozens on Solstheim while she waited for the Crisis to blow over, and even a few with Erich in Cyrodiil. Maybe she could find some items to sell off to get enough money for a small home in Whiterun. Torvar's snoring made sleep difficult, sometimes. She'd probably have to sell off her gem collection, but it would be worth it.

“I want to learn about magic in application,” Brelyna continued. “I want to learn how to use it. Theory can get so boring.”

Mehra nodded. Really, she wouldn't mind learning more theory. At the same time, though, she had to get her strength back up so she could fight with less worry. There would be time for theory in the future.

“I wonder if they cleared all of the undead out of Saarthal,” she mused, watching as Brelyna screwed her face into a look of disgust.

“You know with how cautious Master Tolfdir is,” she replied, “that there would be a zero percent chance of danger there.”

Mehra nodded in agreement, though she wasn't quite sure. Ruins were ruins, and in her experience, they were always crawling with something nasty.

 

* * *

 

 

4E 201. Solstheim

 

He was skeptical when he first saw his new apprentice. Talvas was built like a Redoran bulwark – short, wide, and strong. His first instinct was that the rival House did a poor job selecting someone to send undercover, but Neloth squashed the thought. Though Redoran and Telvanni had no love for each other, the dire state of Morrowind led them to play nice.

It didn't take long before Neloth was certain of his decision to take Talvas on as an apprentice. Talvas proved himself to be the master conjurer his previous teachers claimed he was. Truth be told, he was a brilliant young man, despite his flaws.

Neloth watched as Talvas made another attempt to decipher his margin notes. Damned kids didn't bother to become fluent in Ancient Dunmeris, despite their dreams of attaining an apprenticeship with a Master.

He pursed his lips; he was the only Master left alive who used the language consistently. For the rest of the House, it was purely academic. Though any correspondence from Aryon was written in Ancient Dunmeris, Neloth was under no illusion that the young thousand year old upstart knew the language from birth. Being the last ancient one alive wasn't as charming as Neloth thought it would be in his youth.

“Talvas,” he called, watching as his apprentice winced at the sound of his own name.

Neloth had to toughen the boy up. His gentle temperament and meek nature did him no favors. If he became a Master-Wizard, the rest of the House would tear him apart.

“Have you found anything yet?” he asked. Neloth watched as his face creased in worry.

“No, Master,” Talvas replied. “I apologize. Your notes in the margins were interesting and I got sidetracked.”

This was his prodigy– hungry to learn, yet incredibly mindful of how he presented himself to his Master.

Neloth crossed his arms. Coming from anyone else, he'd call him out on a lie, but it was beyond Talvas to lie to cover up a shortcoming. He was so unlike Ildari – refreshingly so.

“Master,” Talvas mumbled, “I realize that this is very personal, but if you allow me into your library, I'll be able to research more about the dragons faster.”

“Absolutely not,” Neloth replied. “It is my private library. I am the only one allowed in there.”

Besides the dangerous books and scrolls, there were pieces so old that they would disintegrate if handled improperly. Thankfully, the most important parts of the library were moved before the eruption. A few powerful scrolls of healing would have been nice, but spell scrolls had been one of the last priorities, given the fact that he was quite capable of casting any spell which could be written on a scroll.

Shaking his head, Neloth went back to his research. Were the heartstones parts of the Heart of Lorkhan? Or were they simply pieces of Red Mountain which were closest to the Heart? He leaned more toward the second hypothesis; however, nobody really knew what happened to the Heart, except for–

“I apologize for asking about your library,” Talvas interrupted, “Have you found anything yet?”

Neloth looked up from his reading and scowled. “That's your research,” he groused, “not mine. If this dragons situation becomes more pressing – and I doubt that it will effect me in the least – , then I shall turn my attention to it. You're going to have to stand on your own two feet sooner than later, apprentice. It might as well be now.”

“Yes, Master,” Talvas replied. “I will do my best.”

“Of course you will. I expect no less from my apprentice.”

Talvas stared down at the book in front of him, his lips pursed. He was thinking, and the look on his face told Neloth that he debated whether or not he wanted to say something.

“Ask,” Neloth grumbled. “You've got that look.”

“Did you ever see a dragon?” he asked. “I mean, is that even from your time?”

Neloth sighed and put his head in his hands. “They kept to Skyrim,” he replied, “I don't think they wanted to deal with the Tribunal. The Northern Barbarians are fleshier, at any rate – much better food – and we already had our gods. There weren't many dragons left in that time, regardless.”

Talvas stared at him with wide eyes, as if he were an artifact of some sort. “How old are you, Master?”

Old enough to be weary of the question. Old enough to have no interest in politics, and old enough to reliably predict multiple outcomes of war and intrigue. Old enough to become completely disconnected from petty social attachments.

Neloth shook his head. It had been a while since someone dared to ask such a question of him. He was in a generous mood, however; he'd answer the question that day.

“My best guess is somewhere over three thousand,” Neloth replied. “I've quit keeping track of it – it's a tedious thing, and it's part of the House records if I decide that I ever want to know the exact number. With any luck, I'll live longer than Divayth did. His connection to Mehrunes Dagon was his downfall. I had Mehrunes' Razor at one point, you know; that very well could have been me instead of Divayth.”

“Yes, how much of the Realizations of Acrobacy was true, anyway?”

Neloth slammed his fist on the table. Goddammit!

“That fucking book!” He shouted. “Really, you must shut up more often! You know why Gothren was losing to me? He had no military experience. He didn't have a damned clue how to lead an army, much less the damned House!”

He outlived Gothren. That was reward in and of itself. And though the Razor was nice, he didn't need it and never did.

“I was certain it was lies, Master,” Talvas protested, his hands readied to cast a protective ward. “At any rate, Drothan was after the Razor last anyone heard of it, wasn't he?”

Hm, yes. Neloth pursed his lips and rubbed his beard. Frathen Drothan: he hadn't heard that name in a while.

“And he never returned,” Neloth answered. “We told him that attempting to recover the Razor in order to topple the Empire was a fool's errand, given what happened to Divayth just for having a conversation once in a while with Dagon. I even attended the Council on the matter. Where did you hear of this, Talvas?”

Talvas glanced around the room in worry. Why did he seem worried? Did he sneak into his private library to look at his personal documents? Because, if he did–

“I read as many Council logs as I could while I was in Sadrith Mora,” he replied. “If I'm going to become a Master one day, I have to know our history. And all I can say is a unanimous Council ought to have indicated to Drothan that he was doing something very stupid.”

Neloth nodded. “He was stripped of his rank, all his privileges, and his tower. His plan was sheer lunacy. Empires come and go, and the Empire of Tiber Septim will die out eventually with the last of its heirs. But, you know who outlasts Empires? Telvanni. Our House will always be.”

“Yes, Master.”

Neloth studied Talvas for a moment. He was so young, yet he already lived an entire natural lifespan for a Dunmer, thus cementing himself as one of the elite. His apprentice would most certainly would end up in an arranged marriage and would have his pick of eligible women from the merit of his apprenticeship alone. Neloth was going to keep his hands out of that one. Aryon could arrange the marriage; he wanted no part in it. Shaking his head, he turned back to his research on the heartstones.

There were more pressing matters for him attend to than this silliness.

 

* * *

 

4E 201, Saarthal

 

From the moment she saw the amulet hanging on the wall, Mehra knew that the ruins of Saarthal weren't typical. She ought to have left the amulet there and come back without telling anyone about it. Instead, the same curious greed that made her pocket three incredibly expensive enchanted rings – the same one that told her to hoard gems – made her take the amulet from the obviously trapped wall.

She stood in front of an altar in a small room lined with coffins, blinking at the pale apparition in front of her. Time stood still in the apparition's presence; Tolfdir stood frozen at her side, unblinking, while the flame on a nearby candle made no movement. The translucent robed man in front of her crossed his arms and studied her. After a moment's study, his eyebrows shot up in what Mehra desperately hoped wasn't recognition.

“Hold mage, and listen well.” he said. “Know that you have set in motion a series of events that cannot be stopped.”

Mehra sighed and closed her eyes.

“Again? I honestly don't try to do these things.” she replied. “I'll put everything back where I found it if that will make it better. I don't want any trouble.”

“ Judgement has not been passed as you had no way of knowing,” he said. “ Judgment will be passed on your actions to come, and how you deal with the dangers ahead of you. This warning is passed to you because the Psijic Order believes in you. You, mage, and you alone, have the potential to prevent disaster. Take great care, and know that the Order is watching.”

“You know who I am, then?” she asked. “I'm not nearly as powerful as I once was.”

He didn't reply and disappeared in a flash of light, forcing Mehra to cover her eyes. Time reverted to normal; Tolfdir looked around the room in wonder.

“I swear, I felt something just then,” he mumbled. He turned to her and frowned. “Are you alright, my dear?”

Mehra nodded and rubbed her eyes. “I saw an apparition of some sort just now,” she replied. “He said he was from the Psijic Order, and that there is danger ahead.”

Danger again, and Mehra had the sneaking suspicion that it had nothing to do with the dragons. How in the world was she to take care of two incredibly disastrous problems?

Tolfdir furrowed his brow. “That's very odd,” he said. “The Psijic Order hasn't been seen in a long time, and they have no connection to these ruins. Let's take a look around. Maybe something is in one of these coffins.”

“Are you certain we should be looking around if we were warned?” Mehra asked, watching as Tolfdir approached an ancient sarcophagus.

“Well,” he sighed, “if we don't, then someone else will. What if that 'someone else' is an innocent person? What if they are evil? Part of magical study is to protect others from harm. Besides, we must get to the bottom of this.”

Though he had a point, Mehra wasn't certain that digging around in coffins was the best approach. They ought to get the Arch-Mage to seal away this section of the ruins; at least then, it would take someone very powerful to break the seal.

Predictably, as soon as they approached the coffins, the lids fell to the ground to reveal angry draugr. Mehra drew her sword and readied flames in her hand. Charging forward, she attacked them head-on, careful to avoid using dragon shouts. She had to stay beneath the Thalmor representative's notice.

They made quick work of the undead; when the last one fell, a path opened up, leading deeper into the ruins. Tolfdir motioned onward, and Mehra followed.

They arrived at a large room with more crypts lining the walls. Draugr burst out from all sides, and Mehra charged in. With each new spell casting, she remembered more of her forgotten skills. Just a week in classes and a fight, and already, she was on her way to becoming formidable once again.

It didn't take long before every last draugr lay dead. Her instructor stepped over the fallen corpses to examine the carvings on the coffins.

“You don't see crypts like this in Nordic ruins,” Tolfdir marveled, “I'm going to stay here to check it out.”

Mehra glanced toward the far end of the room. There was another path, presumably leading deeper into the ruins.

“What would you like me to do?” She asked.

Tolfdir gave her a nod. “You tested out of Introduction to Destruction, yes?”

Mehra nodded.

“You seem quite capable,” he replied. “I think you might be too advanced for some of the classes you're in. At any rate, I imagine you'll have no trouble if you go on ahead. Just be careful.”

Mehra nodded and continued onward, despite her reservations that an instructor would send a student off into dangerous ruins all on her own. Ethics aside, she didn't mind; after all, it was an opportunity to practice her skills.

The crypt wound downward, following a similar pattern as Bleak Falls Barrow and Dustman's Cairn. Mehra encountered hallways lined with draugr, and numerous traps and puzzles. To all appearances, it seemed to be a typical Nordic ruin, but the apparition's warning was clear in her mind.

There was danger ahead. She sensed it too, with each step that led deeper into the ruin. Hours passed, and the growing nervousness in the pit her her stomach caused her to wander in the dark and rely on her assassin skills to move as quietly and efficiently as possible.

Mehra wheeled around at the sound of footsteps behind her. Tolfdir emerged from the darkness, an orb of candlelight hovering over his head.

“I thought it high time I caught up with you,” he called. “How have you been doing?”

“Just fine,” she replied, “it has been a typical ruin so far.”

“Sounds good, Mehra,” he smiled. “Let's press on ahead together, shall we?”

There was something in his smile that reminded her of Erich, and in the back of her mind, she thought that Tolfdir may be his long-lost cousin from the Third Era. It was certainly possible. But how would she even begin to ask Tolfdir if he had a cousin named Erich? She'd look doubly suspicious, and she was quite certain that it would be upsetting for him to find out his last surviving family member was an insane daedra.

No, it was better to leave that alone.

Mehra pushed on the heavy, ebony door in front of her. It groaned on its hinges and slowly swung open, revealing a set of stairs washed in blue-green light.

There was something down here.

Entranced by the light, Mehra trudged down the stairs and froze at the bottom. There, in the center of the room, a giant orb covered in runes floated. Light emanated from it, casting a blue glow about the room.

The orb felt like pure magic.

Behind her, she heard Tolfdir marvel at the sight. In all his years, he'd never seen anything like it before, either. Tolfdir approached the orb, his head tilted to the side.

Something metallic shifted behind them. Mehra whirled around to see a draugr charging at her, an axe in his hand. He glowed with a barrier the same color as the light from the orb. Barely deflecting his axe blow, Mehra thrust her sword straight for his chest.

Against all reason, she missed. The barrier deflected her sword, sending her flailing face-first toward an altar. She wheeled around, grabbed a handful of ash out of a nearby brazier, and threw it in the creature's face. Though the barrier deflected the ash, the draugr flinched, buying her enough time to get some distance between them. Mehra threw a fireball behind her back at him, but it absorbed into the barrier.

She glanced around the room for something to use against it, but came up with nothing. It was useless that barrier up around the draugr.

This was no ordinary draugr. Whoever he had been in his past life was very skilled in combat.

In the far end of the room, Tolfdir fared better in his faceoff against a pair of common draugr. Lightning shot from his hands and turned them to ash before they could even come close to him.

“Tolfdir!” Mehra shouted, “We've got to get this guy's barrier down! My attacks are doing nothing!”

"I'm on it!” he called. “He must be using the orb here to power his defenses!”

Mehra turned her head away from Tolfdir to see the draugr running toward her. He threw a fireball at her then charged her, slamming her into the stone wall. Breath rushed out of her lungs. Gasping and coughing, she smelled the thick embalming fluid on the undead, and the unmistakeable smell of death as he laughed in her face. The draugr slammed her against the wall again, the force causing stars to float across her vision. Another slam against the wall, and the draugr continued to laugh in a rattling, wet tone.

He was playing with her.

“If you had balls,” she spat, “I'd knee you in them, you bastard. And that fireball was weak; I'm a Dunmer, you fool.”

The draugr didn't understand her. Instead, he grinned – rotten, withered lips stretching over shrunken gums – and drew a dagger at his hip to deliver the final blow.

The blue light that surrounded him flickered and died, just in time for his strike. Mehra struck out with her hand, disarming him in a second. Drawing her own dagger, she stabbed him in the neck, jerked the knife deeply, and severed the connection between his brain and his body. The draugr collapsed to the stone floor in a lifeless heap as Mehra removed the dagger from his neck.

Hm. The Blade of Woe was a fine blade indeed.

Tolfdir turned from the orb and walked over to her. “Are you alright, Mehra?” he asked.

“Got knocked around a bit,” she shrugged, “but I've had worse.”

The instructor nodded and looked down at the felled draugr. Frowning, he reached down to grab a piece of ancient paper pinned to the creature's chest. As he read it, his frown increased.

“What's it say?” she asked, peering at the scratchy characters on the paper. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't Cyrodiilic.

Tolfdir pursed his lips, then recited the writing on the page:

“ Be bound here, Jyrik, murderer, betrayer  
Condemned by your crimes against realm and lord.  
May your name and your deeds be forgotten forever  
And the charm which you bear be sealed by our ward.”

“It's a writ of sealing,” he said. “This fellow here committed a most terrible crime to be stricken from historical record. The orb here must certainly have something to do with this.”

Tolfdir reached down again and unhooked the amulet around the draugr's neck. “This is the charm that sealed him, along with this sealing ward. Now that I feel it, the amulet here has a pretty hefty fortify magicka enchantment on it.”

He held up the amulet and handed it to her. “Since you took him down, I suppose you should keep this,” he said. “I don't believe it should be cursed, since he was defeated. It looks fragmented; maybe you can find the other pieces, if you're lucky. At any rate, I'm certain it can help you in your studies as you learn how to cast new spells.”

Mehra took the amulet and examined it. A leather cord wound around various teeth and fragments of tusks. In the center, a golden, engraved, and cut pendant hung, brassy with age. She too felt the enchantment but was wary of wearing it for fear of a curse.

She tucked it into her pack as Tolfdir turned and walked over to the orb to examine it in more detail. After a while, he shook his head.

“We need to get the Arch-Mage down here,” he said. “This discovery is incredible. I don't dare leave this unattended for a moment. Can you please return to the College and inform him of this discovery?”

“No problem.”

Mehra glanced around the room and smiled. There, behind the orb, was a pullchain and a door which presumably led to the beginning of the ruin. Entering the small tunnel, she made her way through until she ended up in a cavern with a dragon word wall. Her feet carried her toward the wall, her eyes focusing on a singular word that etched itself into her mind.

From her earlier fight with a dragon in Solitude, the word was instantly revealed: Ice – no connotation, just ice. Liz.

Since she was alone, she figured she ought to test it. Mehra turned toward the corner of the room.

"Liz!”

A blast of frigid air flew across the room, freezing everything in its path. When the she was certain that the shout wore off, Mehra crept forward to examine its effects more closely. She toed a patch of ice and shivered as cold seeped into her foot. Unwilling to test it further, she backed off, turned toward a chest in the middle of the room – must have missed it after seeing the word wall – and opened it.

Inside was a pair of enchanted Nordic daggers, along with a gigantic, Nord-sized ring, and a handful of gold. Mehra put the items in her bag. Combined with the other things she found in the ruin, and the money she earned from some of her Companions jobs and dragonslaying, it was possible that she had enough money to purchase a modest home in Whiterun.

Satisfied with her findings, Mehra left the dusty, forgotten cavern that housed the word wall and trudged her way up to the surface. She made it to the entrance of the Saarthal and slipped by her classmates to throw open the main door on the underground ruins.

The midday sun beamed down on her and the surrounding snow. Mehra squinted and gingerly picked her way up a melting slope to reach the main path leading toward Winterhold. She continued onward, occasionally glancing to her left.

It was hard to miss the gigantic statue of a woman holding a crescent moon and sun in her hands. Nestled between the rocky, ice-strewn mountains, the figure stood out against the wilderness, her stern gaze pointing toward Morrowind.

Without a doubt, this was a shrine to Azura. The statue was surprisingly human, but in the land of the Nords, she supposed it made sense. After all, Azura would be pleased with worshipers even from those who were not among her chosen people.

Mehra swallowed and looked up at the statue's reproachful face. She really ought to make herself right with the daedra, at the very least.

She'd have to get some glowdust at the College. There was no way she'd come to the altar empty handed. She owed Azura a prayer of thanks, as well as repentance for her murders.

It was always said that Azura taught her faithful with harsh lessons, and even her chosen Incarnate was no exception. A two hundred year prison sentence was a harsh lesson indeed.

Mehra trudged her way through the slick and melting snow until she reached the entrance to the College. By the time she reached the front door, Mehra figured she ought to seek out the Arch Mage first and tell him about what happened in Saarthal. She entered the Hall of the Elements, and crossed the hallway toward the Arch-Mage's quarters. She knocked on the door and waited for an answer, but heard none. Shrugging, she inched the door open.

“Master?” she called.

There was no reply. Mehra opened the door all the way and frowned when she saw a flight of stairs in front of her. Odd place to put a door, but perhaps, this was to keep foot traffic down on the stairs. She jogged up the spiral staircase, stopping at the top. Strangely enough, there was no door at the top of the stairs.

How did anyone have any privacy here? Nobody had a door on their quarters.

Mehra stopped in the threshold.

“Master Aren?” she called.

“Enter.”

She stepped into the grand quarters and tried not to think about how bored and irritated he sounded. She looked around for him – not sitting next to the beautiful alchemical garden, not at the ornately carved desk, not seated on the nearby plush chaise – and frowned. Perhaps, he was in the next room?

Mehra stepped forward through the room's dividing archway and glanced around. She found him seated in the plainest chair in the room, reading a plain, brown-backed book. He was a slim man – Dunmer, as his name suggested – and his fur fringed, triangular robe mimicked an older style of Dunmeri dress. A charcoal, knotted beard rested in the middle of his collar, hiding any perceptible wrinkles except those on his brow. His ruby eyes scanned the pages of the book.

Her hair stood on end. Mehra didn't have to see him in action to know that the Arch-Mage was very powerful; she felt magical power rolling off of him in waves, though not nearly as strong as Neloth.

“Tolfdir would like you to come out to Saarthal immediately,” Mehra said.

Savos sighed, not bothering to look up from his book. “Please don't tell me another one of the apprentices has been incinerated. I have enough to deal with right now.”

“No,” she replied, “We found some sort of orb. It appeared to resonate with power, but that's all I know. I've never seen anything quite like it.”

He closed his eyes. Clearly, this wasn't a concern to him.

“Feels like it could be similar to the Heart of Lorkhan,” she offered.

Similar, but not as powerful – thank the Gods. Still, Mehra didn't like the implications of the orb's discovery.

The Arch Mage frowned and closed his book. “I... see. Well, I'm sure Tolfdir can give a more... specific explanation. We will have to safeguard it, of course – whatever it is.”

He finally looked directly at her. “Oh, you're new here, yes?” he said.

“Yes, Sir.”

“'Sir',” he repeated, “how quaint. What is your name, Apprentice?” Master Aren smiled in amusement, painfully reminding her of Aryon and his insistence that he wasn't better than anyone else.

“Mehra.”

“Well, Mehra, I am quite content to see nearly any aspect of magic explored and investigated here,” he continued. “But I do not and will not approve of any research or experiments that cause purposeful harm to your fellow members of the College. Are we clear?”

“Absolutely,” she replied. “I will not cause any harm.”

His eyes bored into hers, and though she stood over him, Mehra felt small in comparison. Who knew how old this man was, anyway? He certainly felt older than she.

“And if you're going to ask about the doors,” Savos sighed, “it's a safety issue. And I hold myself to the same standard as I hold everyone else.”

“It sounds like there's been some trouble,” Mehra said.

“Not often, no,” he replied. “Some risks must be taken, to be sure. I am simply trying to avoid untimely deaths. We also must make an effort to avoid worsening what Skyrim thinks of us. All I will say is that one profane act is more than enough. Now, if there isn't anything else?”

Mehra shook her head. “No, Master Aren. Thank you for speaking with me.”

He smiled and nodded at her, then shut his book with a sigh. Figuring that she did her duty, Mehra turned on her heel and returned the way she came.

She hunted down Enthir – the College's sole and questionable trader – purchased the necessary glowdust for her offering, and sold off what she could of the expensive items she lifted from the ruins. He didn't ask where she'd gotten the rings and daggers, and, in fact, didn't flinch at the large sum of gold she asked for in return.

She decided to keep the fragment of amulet from the draugr; Mehra earned it, after all, and the enchantment on it was quite powerful. Perhaps someone could take a look at it just to make sure that it wouldn't curse her.

With her personal errands complete, she left the Hall of Attainment. Mehra stopped at the bottom of the main staircase at the sight of one of the instructors approaching her with a strange look on her face.

“Yes, Master Faralda?”

“Ancano is looking for you,” the Altmer mumbled. “Do not tell him anything important if you found something in Saarthal.”

“Yes, Ma'am,” she replied.

“And your Destruction is going well?” Faralda asked.

Mehra nodded.

“Good,” she replied. “I shall look forward to your next skill test.” With that, the instructor took her leave.

Mehra opened the door to the Hall of the Elements and saw the Thalmor waiting in the room. True to Faralda's word, Ancano was indeed looking for her; as soon as he saw her, he walked toward her with a scowl on his face.

“You were in Saarthal, yes?” he asked. “What happened there?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “We found a thing.”

“What kind of 'thing'?”

“Didn't Master Aren tell you?” Mehra asked, feigning innocence.

The Thalmor scowled. “He doesn't tell me anything. I wish it weren't so.”

Mehra peered up at him and smiled sweetly. “Men; can't count on them to talk it out, am I right?”

Ancano rolled his eyes. “Do not insult my intelligence.  Something was discovered in Saarthal that was significant enough that Tolfdir sent a new member of the College, alone, to deliver word. That sounds precisely like the sort of thing that should matter to everyone. Especially me.”

If he were truly an adviser, why would it matter so much? Certainly he'd be able to see a report, or at least, he could talk with the Arch-Mage himself.

She didn't give him the answers that he wanted. Ancano turned to leave, but froze in mid-step. Pursing his lips, he regarded her with a cool glare.

“If you're studying here,” the Thalmor drawled, “Why did you bring a sword into the ruins?”

“I'm a spellsword,” she replied. “But I did test out of Intro to Destruction.”

Ancano tilted his head to the side and sneered. “Then cast at me, apprentice. I wish to test your skill.”

Mehra swallowed the temptation to cast the Finger of the Mountain and instead, readied a modest fire spell. The last thing she needed was the Thalmor on her back.

Ancano held up his hand to ward off the spell, the glimmering barrier signaling that he was ready. Mehra let loose her fireball and watched as it bounced the Thalmor's outstretched arm backward just enough to make him startle. With that, he let the ward down.

“Your mastery is indeed above your peers,” Ancano remarked. “I shall be watching your progress intently. In the meantime, you'd better cooperate when I question you next time.”

Mehra nodded and forced herself to look agreeable. She didn't answer to this man and she certainly wouldn't in the future.

With that, the Thalmor stormed off. Mehra shook her head; everywhere she went, she continually encountered such angry young people. Were she in a position to do so, she would have advised them to be more understanding of others. As it was, she was forced to play the part of someone much younger.

Ancano was the first to genuinely get on her nerves. That fact alone spoke volumes about the man.

With a heavy sigh, she left the College behind and took the road back toward Saarthal. The statue of Azura drew closer, until she saw a path that led off toward it to the right of the road. Figuring it was the right way, Mehra turned off. The path wound across the mountain; boulders and sharp turns blinded her to the direction until the rocks plateaued.

She arrived. Stone stairs led up to the shrine, and at the top, a lone figure stood with arms reached toward the sky, completely dwarfed in the statue's shadow. Mehra sucked in a breath at the sheer size of the statue.

She approached with her head down until she reached the altar. Glancing up, she saw the person who was there – a young looking Dunmer woman, tightly wrapped for the winter.

“Greetings, traveler,” the woman said. “I am Aranea Ienith, priestess of Azura. Have you come to pray?”

“I have, sera.”

The priestess pursed her lips and regarded her for a moment. Coming to a decision, she nodded.

“I will not presume to know who you are,” she said, “but Lady Azura wishes that you prove your loyalty to her before she speaks with you. My Lady revealed your coming to me.”

Mehra swallowed. Of course.

“I am humbled to have the chance,” she replied.

“Someone has our Lady's Star,” the priestess said. “I was told to direct you to a fortress endangered by water and an elven mage able to turn the brightest star into the blackest night. This is all I was told.”

A very simple riddle, truth be told. Perhaps, Azura wanted to make this easier on her.

“Sounds like Winterhold,” Mehra said.

“I agree,” Aranea nodded. “Though I do not know which mage she refers to. Perhaps, someone at the College would know.”

Mehra pursed her lips and crossed her arms. No doubt, if someone corrupted Azura's Star, they would be thrown out of the College.

“I doubt they will share with me,” she said. “There are strict rules against profane and dangerous practices there. If someone there messed with the Star, they would be kicked out on their ass. I can almost guarantee that dropping the person's name to someone would also be forbidden.”

“Hm,” the priestess frowned, “then there must be someone who has the information in town. Maybe, you can try the tavern?”

Mehra narrowed her eyes in thought. She went to that tavern to read Brand-Shei's father's journal, and everyone looked like a normal patron there, except for one.

“There was an Altmer sorcerer last time I was there,” she said. “I bet that's our guy.”

Aranea smiled. “You truly are the right person for our Lady to send. There are no bounds to her mystery and brilliance.”

“I feel that finding the guy is the easy part,” Mehra sighed. “If the star is corrupted, then there's a big problem.”

“Indeed,” the priestess replied. “But Lady Azura has chosen you to fix it. You are indeed blessed.”

Mehra sucked in a breath and sighed. At the very least, she was trusted with such a very personal matter. Azura certainly wouldn't send just anyone to go fix the Star, would she?

Swallowing her doubts, Mehra took her leave and headed back the way she came. Even if Azura would send an average worshiper on this task, it didn't matter. She reminded herself that she didn't need nor want to be treated different from anyone else.

Mehra made her way through Winterhold again, seeking out the only tavern in the town. As soon as she spotted it, she stopped in her tracks to the sound of a whistle toward her left.

“Hey beautiful! Lookin' good!”

A catcall? Seriously?

Mehra turned around to give the man a piece of her mind, but the words died on her lips as soon as she saw him.

Erich.

He leaned against the wooden frame of an old house, his arms crossed over his chest, cheeks flushed, and a smile on his face.

“I don't holler at women,” he said, “but you were lost in thought. Didn't mean to upset you – it just came to mind. Sorry.”

Mehra rolled her eyes and chuckled despite herself. “What are you doing all the way out here?” she asked.

“Just felt like saying hello,” he replied. “I'm glad to see you made it all the way up here without freezing.” Erich pushed off from the wall, stepped up to her, and gave her a side-hug.

“Do you want to take a walk?” she asked. Maybe they could just catch up – no heavy topics required like their last conversation.

He nodded and took her arm in his, leading her toward the road out of town. When they were out of sight and hearing range, Erich snapped his fingers. A cane appeared in his hand and he pointed it toward a nearby boulder, sending a gust of air that blew the snow away from it. After tapping the newly dried rock, the cane vanished. Erich motioned toward the new seat with his hand.

Mehra sat down on the rock and smiled. He must have done something to warm it.

Erich sat down next to her. “So, what's new?” he asked.

“Well,” she replied, “I've been given a chance to prove myself to Azura again.”

He nodded and stared out at the ice packed ocean. “That's good then,” he said. “I'm sure it's a very private matter.”

Mehra sighed. Closing her eyes, she nodded. “Yeah, it is.” She couldn't betray her Lady's trust by mentioning the profaned Star, even if she felt Erich was trustworthy. While they weren't outright enemies, Azura and Sheogorath didn't generally mix.

She thought about telling him of her meeting with Neloth, but decided against it on account that it seemed like it would be uninteresting. What else could she tell him? Really, making casual conversation with a Daedric Lord wasn't something she was prepared for. Anything she said would surely be common.

There was that Thalmor infiltration mission from Delphine.

“Here's something interesting for you,” Mehra said. “I don't know if you know this, but the Blades got run out of the Empire as part of the White Gold Concordant. Since I appeared as the Dragonborn, the remaining Grandmaster of the Blades contacted me. She thinks that the Thalmor might have something to do with the reemergence of the dragons.”

Erich closed his eyes and shook with laughter. “Thalmor? Dragons? They don't even share history. Unless the Thalmor actually are dragons. Then that would be a problem. Seems plausible, really. There's lots of them with green eyes, you know.”

Mehra bit her lip. No, that thought was insane, but she had to consider the source.

“Anyway,” she continued, “she wants me to infiltrate a party of theirs and steal documents. I'm very much out of practice with stealth, so I'll probably get killed in the process. So I suppose I'm on limited time right now.”

Erich frowned and an envelope materialized in his hands. He opened it, took out a sheet of paper, and read it.

Mehra blinked. He was reading her invitation to the party.

“It spoke to me in your pack,” he mumbled. “Sounded like one of those uppity fellas, too. Reminds me of Haskill, that sweet man.”

She forced herself to appear unphased by what he said. This was Sheogorath speaking as much as it was Erich.

“Hey,” Erich said, “this invitation has room for a plus one. Maybe I can show up, and we can have a bit of sneaky fun together. It'll keep you from getting killed –which would be unfortunate– and it gets me out of the palace for a bit. Sounds like perfect mischief, if you ask me.”

“You won't reveal yourself?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Nah. Seems too important to get too silly.”

Mehra breathed a sigh of relief. If she had Erich with her – a Daedric Lord – there was no way she would be killed. But there was more to think about than just herself; Malborn could end up in danger.

“We have to keep the guy who helped me set this up safe,” she said. “He's a Bosmer named Malborn, and he serves drinks at the Embassy. He did a hell of a lot to get me connected to this.”

“Sounds fair to me,” he shrugged. “Guy's a friend of the Empire, then.”

Mehra nodded quietly. Though he was insane, Erich's ties to the Empire still held strong. She wondered what lengths he would go to in order to keep the Empire from collapsing, even as a daedra. Perhaps, the Empire had a powerful ally in Sheogorath.

Then again, if the Thalmor were working some sort of evil magic as Delphine suspected, it was was possible that not even Sheogorath could stand against them. It would take something with the power of the Heart of Lorkhan to give them any such hope.

Even then, great power such as the Heart of Lorkhan seemed to be cursed.

Oh.

The pendant from the crypt. She could ask Erich if it was cursed.

Mehra dug through her pack, grabbed the pendant, and held it out to him.

“Hey, is this pendant cursed?”

Erich tilted his head and looked at it. “Nah, I don't see a curse here,” he said, “though it depends on what you mean by 'curse'. Lots of curses were said over it.”

She frowned. Mehra wasn't the superstitious sort, but it did seem bad to wear an amulet that was the cause of a lot of strife.

“I mean,” he said, “if you wear it and you're not using it for evil, you won't need to be sealed up with it as your ward, will you?”

Unnerved by the eerie accuracy of his words, Mehra nodded and put the amulet around her neck. She wasn't going to use the amulet for evil.

Mehra looked up to see the Arch-Mage walking out of Winterhold's main road, presumably in the direction of Saarthal. When he reached them, he looked at the rock on which she sat in curiosity.

“Fascinating rune, apprentice,” he said. “Quite skilled – it takes a lot of practice to create warmth without fire.”

Erich grinned broadly next to her, and her stomach lurched at the sight of the long canines in his mouth. If the Arch-Mage caught sight of them, he'd surely kick her out of the College for consorting with daedra.

“Thank you, Master Aren,” Mehra replied, hoping desperately that Erich would let it slide that she took credit for his rune in order to keep attention away from him. “I wish you safe travels.”

“Appreciated, Apprentice.” With that, he continued down the road toward Saarthal.

When he was out of sight, Mehra let out the breath she'd been holding. That was close.

“Do you think he saw the fangs?” she asked, staring out at the new set of footprints Master Aren left in the snow.

Erich turned to her with wide eyes, “I have fangs?”

“Have you not looked in a mirror, Erich?”

He frowned, shook his head, and summoned a mirror. Curious, he peered into the glass and smiled, gasping when he saw the daedric fangs and slit pupils.

“Yeah,” she said, “you look a bit 'off', friend.”

“I'll have to cover it up when I do this infiltration mission,” Erich mused. “Now that I think of it, my predecessor looked like a man with reptile eyes, fangs, and claws. Must be a 'me' thing.”

“Maybe so,” Mehra shrugged. “Dremora have that, too.”

Erich blinked and tilted his head to the side. Scowling, he stretched his legs out and stood.

“I've got to get going,” he said, “just got a prayer from someone in trouble. Thalmor hunting down daedra worshipers – you know how it is. Good guy, really; remembers the yarn. Most just think of the cabbage and cheese, but the yarn! The yarn is important.”

“I'll um,” Mehra mumbled. “I'll remember that, Erich.”

He turned to her and smiled. “I'm certain you will, my dear. You're mindful of your Daedra.”

With that, he summoned his cane, tapped it on the ground and disappeared.

Mehra stared at the bootprints he left in the snow, wondering what she'd just gotten herself into.

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

 

_It's the strangest thing. Yesterday, it was hard, today, it is easy. Just a good night's sleep, and yesterday's mysteries are today's masteries._

 

* * *

 

 

4E 201, Cyrodiil. Shrine of Sheogorath.

 

Screams were troubling. They reminded him of blood and ash and gates to Oblivion. They reminded him of the time he stepped deep inside the earth into the great necromancer Mannimarco's lair and proclaimed to him that the Void – Erich Heartfire, Listener of the Dark Brotherhood – was darker.

The screams echoed inside his mind, a gruesome chorus of pleading and wailing. They came from the south, where offerings substituted lettuce for cabbage. The crowd of voices and silent prayers all had a single word in common: Thalmor.

Apostate hunts would always happen; this was fact. Lately, however, the hunts increased in number until he felt that he had to intervene. The Vigilant of Stendarr and the Thalmor didn't know when to quit. It was enough to make a man angry – mad, even.

“We harm nothing!” his priest insisted.

“Your daedra worship is an affront to the Gods!” the Thalmor spat.

No. No more.

Erich revealed himself in front of the shrine in a flash of light and watched as the Thalmor froze at his appearance. His faithful pleaded and sobbed, making a dash to hide behind him, grovel, and beg for his mercy and protection.

“Now, what's going on here?” he asked.

“They have discovered us!” the priest said. “They mean to kill us, Master!”

“Not today, my children,” Sheogorath insisted. “It is too much, lately.”

A small, Dunmer woman sniffled as she hid behind him. “We exist at your whim, Lord Sheogorath.”

The Thalmor Justicars stared at him in terror, their malicious deeds entirely forgotten in the face of the Madgod himself. At least, it seemed as if they recognized him. He'd been somewhat human passing but a moment ago.

Ephemeral glow? Check.

Orchid crown? Check.

Green cape? Check.

Staff of Sheogorath?

He frowned and looked around. Where had it gone off to?

Scowling, Erich reached up into the Oblivion pocket above him and withdrew the staff. There; now he looked like Sheogorath. The staff was most important.

“I don't know what's wrong with ya,” he spat. “Don't go about huntin' mah worshipers like dogs, ya filthy Thalmor!”

The accent came out of his mouth in a most shocking and delightful way – that strange mix of the poorest of Breton, Dunmer, and Colovian that achingly reminded him of his predecessor, a man who wasn't and never would be again.

Stretching out his staff, Sheogorath frowned at the Thalmor in front of him. “You are dust,” he declared.

And it was so. All but one of them deteriorated and turned to dust in an instant, their remains scattering on the wind. The remaining Justicar – leader, it looked like – stood in terror.

“Now you,” he said. “You will go and tell your supervisor exactly what you saw here. And none of you are to disturb this shrine ever again.”

“I-I,” the Justicar stammered, “I don't take orders from daedra.”

Erich grinned, fangs and all. “Yes, I'm afraid you do. Now, get going before I change my mind.”

The Justicar scrambled away from the shrine, running through the overgrown brush that lined the pathway.

Erich inhaled deeply, reveling in the smell of Cyrodiil's springtime blooms. Hyacinth, honeysuckle, azalea, lilac, and rhododendron combined in the air, creating a thick, flowery perfume. How strange that it smelled so much of joy and peace during such dark times. There was duality to everything.

“They're not going to leave this shrine alone,” Erich sighed. “How about you all come to the Island with me? We've got sun and sand or swamp and clouds, if that's your thing.”

Delighted, the small handful of his faithful agreed readily. Sheogorath reached out with his staff and drew a rectangle in the air. The shape took the form of a door, one that led to the Shivering Isles.

“Step on in, folks,” he beamed. “Become a citizen of New Sheoth. Some insanity included.”

The worshipers stepped through the portal, their faces full of awe. After everyone was in, he motioned toward the doors that led to the respective sides of the city.

“Dementia on one side,” he said, “Mania on the other. Choose which you like. Of course, if you're like me, you can be either and both and neither, all at once.”

Entranced, each chose their own paths, until the priest remained. He furrowed his brow and knelt down to bow to Sheogorath.

“Master,” he said, “What do you require of me?”

Erich smiled sadly and sighed. “I require you to go out there and live your life. That's all.”

Frowning, the priest nodded and said nothing. He slowly stood and wandered off to the right – to Dementia's half of the city. For those who chose their path to madness, it was a sometimes mystery as to why people chose as they did. But from this one, he sensed a deep well of depression, one that he was certain would have the man contemplating The Hill.

Erich turned away with a sigh and took the path back to the palace. He contemplated The Hill once as well – sat atop it for a week. It was fortunate that he never went through with it; after all, each person on the Island had to die according to his plan. Or, his predecessor's plan.

What was the plan, anyway?

Shaking his head, Erich shuffled into the palace, ignoring everyone on his way. He wasn't one for politics much anymore, but this business with the dragons was another matter entirely. In fact, it was enough of a problem that he figured he ought to come out of retirement – just a little, not too much – to do something to help Mehra fix it. Because if she couldn't fix it, then it was likely that the dragons could spill over into other planes, and if they did that, they could torch his lovely island. They could torch the entirety of the mortal plane, really. And an absence of mortals would be dull and frankly, quite distressing.

The crash of thunder was surprising, but not entirely unexpected. Worry – paranoid dementia – did that sometimes.

He brought thunderstorms by accident; the one who had been Sheogorath before seemed more purposeful. It was beautiful the way the world revolved around him. If Erich were honest with himself, things didn't feel as effortless as they seemed for the previous Sheogorath.

When he was mortal, he had been a man who fell hard and fell fast – brooding Lucien, kind Martin, fiery Mehra, his troubled predecessor – and he carried a part of each in his heart. Perhaps, he was a sucker for people with problems.

It certainly answered the question of why he went to Cyrodiil to take a pocket of his worshipers to safety. And, it certainly provided him a reason as to why he volunteered to accompany Mehra to the Thalmor's boring, clothes-on, no-greenmote party.

Yuck. He was starting to get as sentimental as Azura.

Erich wheeled around at the sound of footsteps behind him. Who was able to sneak up on him? He was the sneakiest of sneaks! The quietest of quiets!

He saw Sanguine standing a few feet behind him on the carpet, a grin on his face.

“Sanguine, my brother!” Erich laughed. “I was wondering who could possibly sneak up on me.”

“You were lost in thought,” he shrugged, “It wasn't too difficult.”

“What brings you here?”

Sanguine shrugged again. “Do I need a reason?”

“I suppose not.”

Erich nodded and pursed his lips in thought. “Does the increase in hunts bother you? Lots more people dying, lately.”

“Nah,” he said. “Faithful are hard to come by. They're always young and rebellious, usually young mages. Those book-reading kids need a good drink and fuck every now and then, and Sanguine is always ready to answer their call.”

“Then why are they hard to come by?” Erich wondered.

“Because they grow out of it,” Sanguine groused. “Those who don't become addicts or prostitutes hang it up eventually. Faithful? Rare as foreskin on a Tribunal priest.”

“What's this about Tribu–”

“I'm not all about dark passions you know,” he sighed. “I'm not about love in the least but there's so many kinds of revelry and debauchery. You know very well that we aren't so simple.”

Erich nodded. “They always forget the yarn. It's always cheese and cabbage but, never the yarn. And the calipers or soul gems? Forget about it.”

Sanguine stepped forward, bringing the distinct smell of sujamma with him. His hand reached up to cup his face, and Erich realized with a start that for the first time in a long time, someone was actually tall enough to stare him square in the eyes.

A step closer, and Sanguine's armored stomach bumped into him. Erich blinked. He knew what Sanguine was up to; he played the game when he was a mortal.

The Prince of 'Up for Anything' was trying to seduce him.

Erich didn't know what to make of it. This wasn't a typical thing, was it? Daedra competed with each other. Sure, some of them were friends, but Sheogorath had no friends, probably due to that whole 'Jyggalag is too powerful' thing.

Sheogorath backed away quickly. Was Sanguine one of the ones who cursed Jyggalag? They could very well be enemies. He could be enemies with everyone, really.

Sanguine looked perplexed. He dropped his hand and crossed his arms in defense. Maybe he wasn't used to getting rejected. Or, if what he said about his followers was something to go by, was constantly getting rejected.

“I don't know if I can trust you,” Sheogorath frowned.

“How so?” Sanguine asked. “If you're demented right now, I can leave and give you some space.”

“Tell me,” Sheogorath replied, “What does the word 'Jyggalag' mean to you?”

Sanguine pursed his lips. “I'm going to leave now. I will come back when you're clearer, alright?”

“Clear?” he hissed. “I see it now. No! I am more clear than I have been in centuries! My mind is transparent, you hear me?”

“Absolutely,” Sanguine replied. “See my hands? I am holding them up so you can watch them. They are doing nothing, see?”

“Lies! They are in the air! Your hands always do something!”

Sanguine ignored him. “I am going to recall to my home and leave you. You're going to see me cast the spell. I will disappear. I want no surprises.”

He'd better fucking run! This was his domain!

Sanguine cast a spell and disappeared, likely to plot against him with the other Daedra. He had to prepare for the worst; Mehrunes Dagon was already an enemy from what happened when he was a mortal, and where there was one enemy, there were legions more.

“Haskill!” he shouted. “Haskill! They're going to get me and shove me in a box again!”

Nobody appeared.

“Haskill!”

Finally, Haskill pushed open the door to the throne room.

“Who worries you, Master?” he asked. “Shall I order them put to the sword? Or, do you wish to do the honor yourself?”

Sheogorath shook his head. “This is bigger than that,” he said. “Sanguine was here. They're going to curse me again, I just know it.”

“That is troublesome news, Master,” Haskill frowned. “But you aren't Jyggalag. Thank goodness, you aren't Jyggalag. They didn't like him in the least, Master.”

Yes, true. He was an entirely new creature, come to think of it. How could they box him up, if he was already boxed up as Sheogorath? He was already himself.

Could he possibly need someone sane to talk to him about this? Where was he to find a sane person, anyhow?

“What about Mehra?” he mumbled, “She seems fine. But she is Azura's champion. Can I trust her?”

“Pardon, Master?”

Sheogorath waved his hand in the air and Haskill closed his mouth to wait patiently for him. Haskill wasn't the most exciting guy, but he was always dependable. He helped him through some of the darkest times.

Now, there was the matter of Mehra. He supposed a mortal couldn't do much to him, but he'd have to watch out.

Nobody was trustworthy. If Sanguine returned in peace, maybe he'd take it as a sign that his situation wasn't as dire as he thought. Until then, he was going to stay in the palace and hunt heretics.

Sheogorath came too far to be betrayed again.

 

* * *

 

 

4E 201, Sometime later

 

Mehra followed the trail of clues to the tavern in Winterhold and spoke to Nelacar who directed her to a place called Ilinata's Deep. There, she found the skeleton of Malyn Varen, the man who corrupted the star and sealed his soul inside it in a desperate attempt to live forever.

Azura saw it fit to send her inside the Star to personally cleanse Malyn's soul from it. Mehra certainly wouldn't object. Of course the inside of the star was brilliant, shining with a purity the likes of which she'd never seen. Mehra peered around at the Star's crystalline interior, marveling at the blue crystals that jutted out of it in every which direction. In front of her was a path of sorts, lined with hexagonal crystals. It was cozy, in an odd way. All this, and the Star was broken and impure. Mehra couldn't imagine its natural splendor.

“Ah! My apprentices have sent another soul to me!” a voice called.

No, not this time. This soul was inside to cleanse the star of this madness.

Mehra took the path in front of her, stepping gingerly across the perfectly smooth crystal. Rounding a corner, she came face to face with a crazed Dunmer in conjurer's robes. He was gaunt and his eyes were sunken in – clearly sick in spirit as he was in body. Without a doubt, this was the one who killed Winterhold students and brainwashed dozens of others in order to feed the star. This was profane magic of the worst kind.

He froze at her appearance. Clearly, she didn't look like the others that his apprentices sent.

“Malyn, you must come out,” she said. “Lady Azura wills it. Let your soul pass on and find peace. Immortality is lonesome.”

Malyn scowled. "And who are you to challenge me? I have conquered mortality itself. I've spat in the eyes of the Daedric Lords. This is my realm now. I've sacrificed too much to let you take it from me!"

“As Nerevarine, I demand you to submit yourself to Azura!”

“Nerevarine?” he scoffed. “You lie!”

Mehra held up her hand and frowned. “The Moon-and-Star tells no lies. Who else would Azura send?”

His eyes widened in horror, just as she charged forward with her sword. Malyn had no time to put up a defense; Mehra beheaded him swiftly to send his soul on to eternity.

The world inside the star flashed brightly and she shielded her eyes. In the next instant, she felt the chill of Winterhold on her face. The deed was done.

Mehra opened her eyes to look down at the Azura's Star and watched as it slowly healed. Sighing, she knelt down in front of the altar, knees resting in a patch of ice.

“A quick kill, Champion?” Azura mused. “Fascinating.”

Mehra averted her eyes to the ground. Though Azura didn't visit her in person, she didn't dare look up, even at the statue.

“I hope that I have learned your lesson,” she said. There was a long pause as Mehra's heart hammered in her chest. She hoped that at the very least, she was no longer a disgrace.

Finally, the silence was broken. “You may have,” Azura replied. “Tell me, then: why were you imprisoned for so long?”

“Murder. Pride. A complete disregard for life.”

“Exactly,” the Daedra said. “You did your job with the Tribunal and Dagoth Ur well, but I had enough of your tantrums. It seems now, though, that you are too cautious. You are a public servant, Incarnate. You would do well to remember that.”

“Yes, my Lady.” Mehra kept her eyes turned down. That was it, then: the absolutely bitter realization that she was a mere tool. She had no autonomy.

“Quit being dramatic,” Azura sighed. “I know what you're thinking. Your wizard is right. I don't think I have to repeat what he said.”

Mehra swallowed. Yes, 'get over yourself'.

“I am willing, then,” she said. “Send me.” Again; it wasn't about her. If she was to be a tool, then so be it.

“You will be sent,” Azura said. “Not by my hand, but it is because of who you are that you must again take up the sword. Your task will be made clear in time.”

Mehra nodded. Of course, there was no easy way of finding out how to end the dragons' return. Even if Azura knew why the dragons returned – and she suspected that she did not – it was up to her to search for answers. Other than the suspicion that that the black dragon from Helgen was the leader, Mehra had nothing else to go off of.

“I know about Sheogorath,” Azura said.

Oh.

Mehra closed her eyes and swallowed thickly. Of course Azura knew about Erich; she followed her every step.

“Be careful with him, Champion,” the daedra said, “and know that I am watching. As far as the Star is concerned, Malyn's soul has been consigned to Oblivion. The Star is yours to do with as you see fit. Be courageous and wise, Champion.”

“I will be,” Mehra replied, “and thank you. I hope to do right by your lessons.”

Then, their connection was severed. She opened her eyes and stood, wincing as blood flowed back into her knees. Was it really that simple? Malyn was removed from the Star so easily. And Azura just shrugged off the past two centuries as if she were a child in time-out.

Oh, hell. With how powerful daedra were, Mehra had no doubt that it was just that: she was a disobedient child, and she had a 'please behave now' lecture.

Unsure how to feel about it, Mehra turned around. Now what?

She supposed she ought to return to the College and prepare for classes, and then, make a trip down to Whiterun in a few days to check in with the Companions and see about purchasing a home. With her plan in mind, Mehra made her way down the stairs from the altar, stopping to say goodbye to Azura's priestess.

“I don't know who you are,” Aranea said, “but Azura must favor you much to speak to you for so long. While you were in the Star, Azura gave me a vision. Her last, she said. I have never been without Azura's foresight since escaping Morrowind. I don't know what to do.”

“You could always join the College,” Mehra volunteered.

Aranea shrugged. “I don't think I would fit in,” she said, “but thank you. I think I'll head down to the inn in Winterhold and see what I can do there.”

“I'm headed that way,” Mehra said. “Want to come with me?”

The priestess cast a longing glance up at the altar in front of the statue of Azura. Shaking her head, she turned back to Mehra. “I want to say one last prayer before I start my journey. But, thank you nonetheless.”

She understood that. With nothing left to say, Mehra began the exhausting journey back to the College, feeling lighter than she had in her entire life.

She'd never live down the mistakes she made in her past; this was fact. And certainly, she couldn't make up for what she'd done nor fix it. But Mehra left with a promise that she'd do better.

That promise would have to do. She couldn't think of anything more that could help the situation. And if she continued to dwell on it, then she certainly wasn't going to be able to move forward.

She arrived in Winterhold and crossed the bridge toward the College around sundown. Mehra threw open the main door and crept to the side of the Hall of the Elements so as to not interrupt the class inside. The mysterious orb from Saarthal cast an ethereal glow around the hall.

She didn't like it there. In fact, Mehra didn't like the orb at all, and though she trusted facts over gut feelings, her instincts told her that the orb was bad news.

The Arch-Mage sat at the side of the lecture hall, observing both students and the orb. Upon seeing her, he stood and approached her.

“Apprentice,” he said, “Mehra, was it?”

“Yes, Master Aren.”

“Well, Mehra,” he said, “since the orb was your discovery, I think you should be the one to research it. Go see Urag in the Arcaneum, and he can help direct your research.”

Mehra fought the urge to scrunch up her face and nodded. “Thank you for the opportunity, Master. I hope to find something of value.”

“Any time spent with a book is to be valued,” he smiled, painfully reminding her of Aryon.

Mehra swallowed. “Yes, Master.”

With that, she made her way to the Arcanaeum, worrying about the Azura's Star-shaped bulge in her pack. She didn't want anyone to know she had it; there'd be too many questions, and given the College's history with the Star, she couldn't trust anyone to do so much as touch it.

Mehra opened the door to the Arcanaeum and rubbed the band of the Moon-and-Star, silently asking Azura to aid her in hiding the Star.

It was time to get a nice, leather pack instead of a cloth sack, she supposed.

She glanced around the Arcanaeum and, surprisingly, saw none of the other students there. Wasn't this a place of learning?

A lone Orc stood reading a book behind a large desk at the far end of the room. This had to be Urag. Certainly, he knew which books could help her get more information on the orb.

The library door groaned then slammed loudly behind her, causing Mehra jump, and Urag to look up and send her a disapproving glare.

“I know what you want,” the orc said. “Word travels fast around here. Discovered some big mystery, huh? Well you don't even need to ask.”

“Urag?” she asked.

“No,” he groused, “that's the other Orc.”

Mehra pursed her lips. Other Orc?

Oh. He was joking.

“I'm looking for books about the discovery,” she said, “or at least, anything that could point to what it is. Books about Saarthal, books about power orbs; that kind of thing.”

“You're in luck,” he chuckled. “There were books that had that kind of information in them that went missing for a few weeks. Brelyna brought them back to the College, so you should thank her for it. Apparently, it was quite an ordeal.”

Urag bent over to grab something under his desk and returned with a pile of small books. “Figured these were the right ones,” he said, “so I grabbed them ahead of time.”

Mehra stepped forward to receive them. There were only three, but it was enough to make a decent start.

“These are about Saarthal,” he said. “Don't let the Thalmor get his hands on them.”

“You don't have to tell me twice,” she drawled. “Guy's as slimy as they can get.”

“Good kid,” he grumbled.

Mehra let the 'kid' comment slide and found a table in the far corner of the library. Pulling up a chair, she sat down and thumbed through the books, looking for anything that would stick out. Hours passed in her research, until she came across a small scholarly paper entitled “Night of Tears”. Even then, all that she could discern from it was that the forces that attacked Saarthal knew what was under there, and that it was a very coveted resource.

Obviously, this was the orb. And if the orb was powerful enough for ancient forces to start a war over it, then it was dangerous.

How was she to explain this to anyone? This was the Heart of Lorkhan all over again, though it seemed significantly weaker. But, even the weaker orb held a lot of power. She felt it, and she was certain that the others did as well.

To top it off, a Thalmor 'assistant' was living at the College. Mehra didn't want Ancano knowing a thing about the possibility of the orb's power. Hopefully, if they were lucky, he was stupider than he looked.

Mehra sighed and closed the book. No, Ancano was sharp; he had to be in order to infiltrate the College. His problems came from his pride and nasty attitude. Had he been kind and made himself useful, he'd have a lot more information, and possibly, the trust of at least a few in the College. As it was, the Thalmor struggled with connecting with anyone. He really made a poor spy.

At least there was that. Maybe, she could speak with the Arch-Mage in confidence about the orb. Mehra grabbed the pile of books, pushed back her chair, and approached the front desk.

“I'm going to speak with the Arch-Mage on this matter,” she said. “Let's keep these between us, shall we?”

Urag nodded and took the books from her. “You've got no argument from me.”

With that, Mehra left the Arcanaeum. It was time for bed, but she had a priority to take care of first thing in the morning.

She had to talk to the Arch-Mage about this orb.

 

* * *

 

 

What the hell?

Brelyna shot up in bed at the nearby scream, her heart hammering in her chest. Did she really hear that?

The scream sounded again and she jumped out of bed, throwing a hasty candlelight spell in the air. It came from Mehra's quarters. She dashed out into the hallway, her eyes wide in fear. The first one into Mehra's quarters was Ancano, followed by Master Mirabelle.

“Stand back!” the Thalmor ordered. “We do not know if she is possessed.”

Brelyna swallowed. What if something evil followed Mehra back from Saarthal?

“I knew we shouldn't have gone to those ruins,” Onmund whispered. Brelyna turned to see him standing behind her, his face pale.

Master Aren jogged into the room. “Who is hurt now?” he grumbled.

Mehra screamed again – the most horrifying noise Brelyna heard in her life. Transfixed, she crept forward to get a better look as Master Aren ran into Mehra's quarters. Brelyna watched as Mehra thrashed in bed and fought against something she couldn't see. Possession? Really?

Mehra screamed and kicked, her tunic riding up to reveal pockmark scars and a suspicious looking mark between her ribs. What happened to her?

The commotion drew the rest of the College to their floor. Master Aren stepped forward, a spell on the tips of his fingers. He put his hand to her forehead, and within seconds, Mehra collapsed under the spell's calming effects, then opened her eyes.

With all the bravery she could muster, Brelyna stepped forward to talk to the swooning woman.

“Mehra,” she called. “Mehra, you're here at the College of Winterhold. It's me, Brelyna. I'm your classmate.” The childish voice in the back of her mind insisted that she wasn't there to make friends.

Mehra blinked her eyes and shook her head. “What happened? Why is everyone here?”

“That's what we're trying to figure out,” Ancano drawled.

Master Aren glared at him and turned back to Mehra. “Do you often have bad dreams?” he asked.

Mehra visibly deflated at the question. “Only when I'm stressed out,” she replied, “or, if something reminds me of– well, something that happened. I'm sorry for waking everyone up.”

A disgusted Ancano stepped forward to take a closer look at her.

“That's enough,” Master Ervine ordered, “everyone, please leave except for Brelyna and Master Savos. Give her some space.”

Brelyna wasn't there to make friends. She was there to study and become powerful – a legend among mages like those of the Third Era Council who proclaimed the Nerevarine through their ancient wisdom.

Mehra obviously went through a lot, given the scars on her torso, and she looked to be about the same age. Was this normal for commoners? Brelyna wasn't really sure. Even some of the elite Telvanni had scars from the Red Year; the majority of them had burn marks.

“Mehra,” Master Ervine said, “you don't have to tell anyone what happened to you if you don't feel like it. But I am here if you need any counseling.”

“Thank you,” Mehra replied, her voice quiet. “I just...”

She swung her feet over the side of the bed and slipped into her boots, tugging the laces into place.

“What is it?” Master Aren asked.

“Got to get up,” she said, latching her armor on and securing her sword and dagger. Wordlessly, she left the room in a hurry.

The Arch-Mage and Master Ervine exchanged a perplexed look. Brelyna stood to follow Mehra. She wanted to see what would happen next. Could this be Vaermina's influence?

Both Masters followed quickly behind. Mehra took the stairs downward, mumbling about a patrol, traitors, and Northern Barbarians. When she reached the bottom, she went straight toward the Hall of the Elements and threw the door open.

Blue light poured out into the hallway from the orb that came from Saarthal, sending Mehra stumbling backward and swearing – in Ancient Dunmeris; something about 'Azura's tits' – at the sight of it.

“Forgot that was there?” Brelyna asked.

Mehra shook her head. “Nobody could forget it if they tried.” She stared at it for a moment, until Master Aren's voice brought her back.

“Maybe you ought to cast a few spells to focus your mind,” he offered. “Let's leave here. I'll give you a private lesson, maybe some focusing techniques?”

Mehra blinked and nodded. “I want to check outside first and make sure we're safe.”

“If it will make you feel better,” Master Aren said, “we can do that. I've been here a long while, and the College is one of the safest places in Skyrim.”

As he followed Mehra into the Hall of the Elements, he gave Master Ervine a pointed look. She gave him a nod, and as soon as the door to the hall closed, she turned to Brelyna.

“Brelyna,” she said. “Will you please accompany me to the Arcanaeum?”

“Yes, Master Ervine.”

She fought the urge to disavow herself of the entire thing and did as she was told. Really, she didn't know what there was to say about the whole thing. She hadn't known Mehra for more than a few days at most.

They took the stairs up to the library, Master Ervine casting candlelight spell to light their way. Opening the door, she ushered Brelyna into the room and offered her a chair.

“Have you heard anything of her having issues like this?” Master Ervine asked.

“No,” she replied, “I barely know her, to be honest.”

Master Ervine put her head in her hands and sighed. Looking up she gave her a serious look. “Is there any indication of daedra worship? The bad ones, I mean.”

Brelyna pursed her lips. Just because she was a Dunmer didn't mean that she worshiped Azura or any other daedra. “I appreciate the respect, Master,” she said, “but I do not worship anyone. But to answer your question, I haven't seen anything from her that would indicate she has an interest in the profane.”

Master Ervine nodded. “She seems strange,” she said, “but just different. Not a bad kind of strange. I think it's a standard nightmare, but there have been problems before.”

“I understand, Master Ervine. Would you like me to keep an eye on her?”

“I wouldn't say that,” she replied, “but let me know if you see anything strange. I don't think outright spying or snooping is necessary.”

Brelyna nodded, but she wasn't quite convinced.

Mehra was hiding something.

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

_You've been trying too hard, thinking too much. Relax. Trust your instincts. Just be yourself. Do the little things, and the big things take care of themselves._

 

* * *

 

 

4E 201. Winterhold.

 

Mehra sat in the Arcaneum, reading as much as she could before she left for Whiterun. Surely, with all the book theft that kept going on, she wouldn't be allowed to leave the College with a book in her possession.

She stretched in her seat and yawned. Really, going to the College was one of the best decisions she'd made since getting out of prison. She was rapidly relearning her destruction, alteration, and illusion skills, though she kept as tight of a lid on it as she could. The last thing she needed was people to realize that she was nearly advanced enough to go into the senior level classes in her specialized subjects.

Enchanting, however, was something she never bothered with learning. At the time of her learning in Morrowind, Mehra simply paid for the best enchanted weapons, armor, and trinkets that money could buy. Now that she was starting from the bottom again and had Azura's Star, she certainly had reason to learn it.

Her eyes landed back on the page and she chastised herself. Her reason was more than that. If she learned how to enchant, then it was quite possible that –

“You're better, then?”

Mehra looked up to see the Thalmor representative standing directly over her, his arms crossed. Better, how?

“Your nightmare, apprentice,” he scowled. “Have you had more? Are you better?”

“For now, yes,” she said. “I don't like having those nightmares, but I've had to learn to put up with them.”

“And how long has this been going on?”

Oh, forever. Mehra never knew a time before the nightmares and the subsequent paranoia. The ghosts of Nerevar's past haunted her for her entire life: paranoia, betrayal, and his ultimate death from being stabbed – right between the ribs where she had a very large birthmark.

“Answer me, apprentice,” Ancano scowled.

“I've always had them,” she spat. “They kept me from getting adopted, and made the nuns hate me. They made me sleep in the cellar in the orphanage so they couldn't hear me scream at night. Tried to beat it out of me and scrub Azura's curse off of my skin. Put that in your report, Thalmor.”

There was not an ounce of pity in his eyes. What was it, that made people like him – representatives, officials, people of office – completely lose their compassion?

“Something about you makes my hair stand on end,” the Justicar frowned. “I will find out what that is, Apprentice.”

Really? As in, he felt her power? Good; he'd better be afraid of her. She wasn't going to let him bully her.

“I appreciate your concern,” she sighed, “but I really would like to get back to my reading.”

Mehra looked back down at her book, but before she could continue, a gloved hand snatched out from under her. She took a deep breath to calm herself. Had she been younger, Ancano would have been stabbed through the hand without hesitation for attempting to take something from her.

She watched him flip through the book and turn it over, completely losing her spot in the process.

“'Anatomy of Staves',” he mumbled, “tell me: do you seriously think you are advanced enough to be capable of selecting a material, creating a design, implementing it, and – if you even succeed in going far enough – enchanting it? Do you even know where to find a staff enchanter? Because they are incredibly rare, apprentice.”

“She is welcome to try, Ancano.”

Mehra looked up to see the Arch-Mage standing behind Ancano, his arms crossed. He regarded the Thalmor coolly.

“Enchanting is a very practical study,” he said. “I find it short-sighted to discourage an apprentice from voluntary study outside of classes.”

She had Neloth in mind, truthfully. If she could impress him with something unexpected like a staff – or at least, a well-formed blank of a staff – then surely she'd end up in his good graces again. At least, maybe.

Mehra sighed and put her head into her hands. Really, what was she thinking? Unless she found a unique and rare material, then designed a flawless staff, there was no way she'd impress Neloth in the least.

And the idea she had was silly, anyway. It would never work.

She listened as Ancano tossed the book back onto the table and stormed off. She slowly opened her eyes. Weary, Mehra picked up the book.

“Don't let him discourage you,” the Arch-Mage said. “You know, one of the greatest staff enchanters of all time is Dunmer. Master Neloth of House Telvanni made incredible advancements in enchanting process and methodology. His writings and inferences shaped modern enchanting. Of course, the Telvanni are quite secretive nowadays – more so than they used to be.”

Mehra stared at the book. She didn't need to be reminded.

“Did you have an idea, Mehra?” he asked.

She sighed. “Oh, it was silly anyway.”

Master Aren pulled out the chair across from her and sat down. “Perhaps not,” he said. “Try me.”

“Well,” Mehra said, “I was looking at the section on bones as a material, specifically how it mentions the intelligence and will of the creature the bone is taken from directly correlates to enchanting capacity.”

The Arch-Mage frowned. “Go on.”

“I'm not considering a person at all,” she said, “I want to clarify that right away.”

He nodded in relief and motioned for her to continue.

“Well, I don't know how far rumors have spread but,” Mehra continued, “Helgen was completely torched by a dragon, and one attacked part of Whiterun and was killed. So, what if you used a dragon's bone as a material?”

Master Aren lifted a brow at her. Mehra squirmed in her seat. It was a dumb idea, wasn't it?

“Provided one could find a bone,” he said, “and provided that tools would even exist to carve said bone, it would likely make an incredibly powerful staff, more so than ebony, I suspect.”

“Do you think that would be impressive, then?” she asked. “I mean, in theory. If I theoretically presented it to someone who liked doing enchanting.”

“Well,” the Arch-Mage chuckled, “I don't know what happened to flowers and poetry, but if it were possible, I think you'd have an incredible gift.”

Her eyes widened in horror. She didn't mean it like that at all.

“Was I wrong?” he asked. “Maybe I'm too old to be in touch with these things. Regardless, it's a brilliant idea. If the locals haven't done anything with the one killed outside of Whiterun, you may wish to see what you can gather there.”

Mehra nodded. The skeleton of that dragon had to be there yet.

The Arch-Mage stood, pushed the chair back, and gave her a nod. “Be careful if you do go to investigate. While Whiterun is quite a progressive hold, you'll have to keep in mind that this isn't Morrowind, and they may not appreciate you poking around something that was once so dangerous.”

“Yes, Master.”

With that, he left her alone to do her research. Mehra picked up the book again and sighed; she couldn't find where she left off. She needed to get back to Whiterun to at least check back in with the Companions; news took a long time to travel to Winterhold, and she needed to know what was going on in the world. Besides, she figured she could use a little time relaxing. As it was, the College was a bit stuffy.

She liked Savos, though. He didn't question her when she wanted to do a quick patrol outside after her nightmare. Mehra couldn't say why she had the urge to do it, but she suspected that it had something to do with the dream that she'd forgotten – possibly a nightmare or memory belonging to Nerevar.

After patrolling, she was still on edge. It bothered her that the College knew of her nightmares, when she kept them as private as possible for her entire adult life. Not even Aryon had known of them.

Of course, had he known, he likely would have done the same as Savos. It surprised her that the Arch-Mage took her up to his quarters to learn some meditation techniques, but Mehra was very grateful.

She wasn't a fool, however. Mehra knew that people would talk. Why would the Arch-Mage bring a young student up to his quarters for a private lesson? It certainly didn't look good, but so long as the College had a decent reputation with the locals, she didn't think that Master Aren cared much for rumors.

Mehra didn't either, if she were honest. People could gossip all they wanted; nothing inappropriate happened between them.

She thumbed through the book and sighed. Really, she ought to get going. Mindful of Urag's rules about not leaving books on tables, she picked up the small pile of enchanting books and brought them to the front desk.

“Well, well,” the librarian grumbled, “someone who returns their damned books to the front desk. Imagine that.”

“Rules are rules,” Mehra shrugged.

“You're not going to borrow any of these?” he asked, nodding toward the pile.

“I've got to go out of town,” she replied. “Maybe another time.”

Urag spun the pile around and peered at the spines. “Tell you what,” he said, “I'll let you borrow one. Don't tell anyone, and don't get the book ruined. Got it?”

“No problem,” Mehra replied. “Thanks.”

She took the book she'd been reading from the top of the pile and put it in her bag, making sure the opening of her bag faced her torso in order to keep Azura's Star hidden.

With the book tucked away, Mehra left the library and headed to the entrance of the College, quickly letting Brelyna and one of her instructors know where she was going.

Mehra left the College behind, excited to get back to Whiterun.

 

* * *

 

 

It was difficult to concentrate on her reading when something – someone – distracting and infinitely more interesting was in the room.

Mirabelle wondered when the next kiss would come; they both had been so busy lately with the discovery from Saarthal and keeping Acano from meddling all over the College. She wondered a lot of things, truthfully. Could they really hide – well, whatever it was they had?

What were they, anyway? They were both much too old to tiptoe around the fact that their relationship was entirely unprofessional.

Mirabelle stretched on the chaise lounge and readjusted her book. If she were caught lounging in the Arch-Mage's quarters, they'd both be in trouble, regardless of the fact that they were both in charge. A majority vote of the other Master Wizards could expel them both.

She couldn't relax. She couldn't focus on her reading; not with so many questions in the air and high stakes. Still, she pressed on, hoping that she was at least giving the appearance of being comfortable.

“There's something about that new apprentice,” Savos said. “Just, something about her.”

Mirabelle looked up from her book. “How do you mean?”

“Well, look at her for starters,” he replied. “Scarred up. A little thin, but muscular. Wears a sword, but tested out of Introductory Destruction. We don't get those types here often.”

Mirabelle swallowed. Oh, so he was 'looking at her', was he? She shoved her worry aside quickly to come up with a reply.

“Maybe she's a natural,” she shrugged.

“She can't be much older than thirty, tops,” Savos insisted. “Doesn't that strike you as odd?”

Mirabelle was three hundred forty seven. She had crow's feet and laugh lines, and she wasn't getting any younger. And Savos? He was at least five hundred.

“She is so young and skilled,” he continued. “Ancano appears to be watching her intently. I don't like that.”

Every man young enough to have working eyes was watching Mehra, for Magnus' sake. Why would she wear conjurer's robes when she could wear skin-tight leather, after all?

Oh, gods.

Mirabelle was too old for this. Scowling, she turned back to her research. That girl wouldn't want anything to do with an old wizard like Savos anyway.

Her eyes scanned the words on the page, but her mind refused to focus. Savos was old, but he looked great, really.

“What's the matter, Mirabelle?”

“Ancano,” she lied. “I don't like him anywhere near the apprentices.”

“I don't either,” he admitted, “but, I believe that at least his eyes on them will help prevent profane experiments.

Mirabelle looked over at Savos. “So, what happened the other night with her? She seemed quite disturbed.”

He sighed, shook his head, and marked his place in his book before closing it. “Well, we went out to the courtyard and made sure we were safe. She had an incredibly advanced fire spell on her fingertips. Seemed very odd.”

“Then what?”

“I took her up here and taught her a bit of self-calming spells,” Savos shrugged. “Getting her to calm down was no simple task. Whatever happened to her in the past must have been horrible. I'm not going to speculate on it.”

Mirabelle nodded. “Brelyna seems to know her more than the other students. She said that there didn't seem to be anything different or dangerous about her.”

“There isn't,” he said. “At least, nothing dangerous. The only odd thing is how quickly her skills have increased. She did tell me – and please, do not repeat this to anyone – that she discovered in her research a thesis that Saarthal was attacked because of some sort of powerful artifact – presumably the orb. Maybe that has something to do with her increase in skill.”

She frowned. That was troublesome. The last thing they needed was a student feeding off of an ancient and unknown magic in order to become more powerful.

“Do you think it would be intentional?” Mirabelle asked.

“I don't know,” Savos replied. “She seems to be level-headed, but I hate to admit that I have been wrong before.”

“Then there's the matter of the rumors,” Mirabelle suggested.

“What rumors?”

She closed her book and smirked. “You bringing a young female student up to your quarters for a private lesson,” she teased, half-serious about her suggestion.

The look on Savos' face told her everything. He cringed and put his head in his hands.

“No, no, no,” he laughed. “Well, if everyone is going to talk about that, it'll throw them off our trail, at any rate.”

“Your 'leave it alone and let it resolve itself' tactic will work marvelously in this case,” Mirabelle snorted.

“Things often sort themselves out on their own, Mirabelle,” Savos replied. “I'm five hundred and seven; I have a general idea of how things work.”

Mirabelle glanced over at him. She didn't think she'd be so accurate with guessing his age.

“Do you know how old I am?” she asked, giving him a coy look.

Savos shrugged and looked back down at his book. “Does it matter?” he said. “I'm sure that matter will resolve itself on its own.”

“I'm three hundred forty seven,” she drawled.

“See?” he smiled. “Look at that. It resolved itself.”

Mirabelle put her head in her hands. The question didn't resolve itself; she resolved it for him, like usual. Sighing, she put her book into her satchel and stood. It was time to get going to teach her advanced Restoration class.

Savos grinned at her. “My, she's a lifetime younger than me. What a fascinating discovery. How in the world have I managed to capture her interest when she is so much younger than me?”

She smiled despite herself. Slinging her pack over her shoulder, Mirabelle walked over to him, grabbed his chin, and pressed her mouth to his. They kissed long and slow, until she pulled back. Mirabelle gave him one last peck before turning and walking toward the door.

She had to get to class; she was never late, and didn't intend to start.

“Now, where are you going?” Savos asked.

Mirabelle shrugged and turned back to him.

“I'm certain that question will resolve itself in time.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sometime later, outside Whiterun.

 

Breezehome was a far departure from the first home she owned. The mushroom tower she grew with the help of a mycologist and an assortment of Telvanni underlings was one of a kind.

This home was made of hard wood and its size was that of one of the great kitchens of Tel Uvirith. Still, it seemed cozy, and Proventius made sure that it was furnished for her – for a price, of course. Jarl Balgruuf seemed pleased that she decided to buy a home in his city.

So Mehra bided her time while waiting for the house to be furnished by going hunting with Aela; Skjor, Athis, and Ria tagged along at times each for different reasons. Ria liked her; this was obvious from the way she defended her from Njada, and the way she made sure she felt like she was welcome. Skjor seemed to be testing her for something.

And Athis followed her like an alley cat, oblivious to the suspicious gaze of Aela. If he didn't follow her along on a hunt, he was there in Jorrvaskr, hungry eyes following wherever she went. She was tempted to go out on a hunt with him then take him back to her house once it was completed, but Mehra wondered if the Circle and their werewolf noses would catch on.

Better to not risk it, then. But the temptation was strong. Two hundred years in prison left her wanting more than she ever had in her entire life, and Athis had an obvious interest.

Mehra stared out at the horizon, marveling at the sunset once again and wondering how anyone could take it for granted. Her unlikely companions sat silently next to her – Aela on the left, Athis too close on the right – and embraced silence after a long, fruitless hunt.

Mehra stretched her legs in front of her and sighed. She really had no clue how they weren't able to find any game with Aela's keen eyes and nose.

“Breezehome's probably ready,” Mehra said. “I think I'm going to go stop by if you two want to come with.”

Aela shrugged. “Remind me again why you need a house when you've got a bed with us.”

“Come on,” Mehra snorted, “I'm a wizard. I've got to have somewhere to hide the bodies, remember?”

“Just remember,” she replied, “You might be an odd one out, but you're one of us. You're stuck.”

Mehra laughed as the Nord thumped her on the back. The three of them stood and turned back toward Whiterun.

“I'm on to her,” Athis chuckled, “she's avoiding Torvar's snoring.”

“I cannot confirm nor deny this,” Mehra said, a ghost of a smile turning up despite her best efforts.

They headed to the city, watching as the sun began its trek below the horizon. Mehra wondered if she ought to tell them what she was researching, and if it would be of any interest to them. She figured she ought to give them a bit of a real answer as to why she bought a house, at any rate.

“Remember that wizard I told you about?” she said.

Aela nodded and Athis visibly bristled. Interesting.

“Well,” Mehra continued, “I think that I'm going to go back there to visit him in a bit. But first, I want to make a blank staff for him, probably out of dragon bone. He's a master enchanter. More importantly, I need a place where I can spread out and do some minor experiments.”

They stepped into the city and Athis glanced over at her.

“Why?” he asked. “The guy yelled at you.”

Mehra shrugged. “I needed it,” she said. “He knew what he was talking about. He's not a nice guy in the least but it's a smart idea to listen when a man who's lived for thousands of years tells you what you ought to be doing with your life.”

“So, the Telvanni equivalent of 'thank you, sir: may I please have another?" he drawled.

Aela laughed and wrapped her arm around Mehra's shoulder. “He's got a point, you know,” she said. “But if you need help with carving it, Eorlund Gray-mane's your guy. He can carve like no other.”

She'd have to keep that in mind. Mehra knew about the jewelry-making business Eorlund did on the side; perhaps, she could trade gemstones for his carving skills.

Mehra shoved her hands into her pockets and looked down. She was thinking of giving up her gem collection for this staff. Was it really worth it? And if she did succeed, how was she going to come off to him? Would it look like groveling? Because groveling wasn't her intent; she wanted to prove something. Aela gave her a pat on the back, breaking her out of her thoughts.

“I'm going to go on up ahead,” she said. “Gotta have a talk with Skjor. See you two later.” With that, Aela stepped ahead of them and disappeared into the evening crowd.

Shrugging, Mehra turned to Athis. “Want to see the house?”

“Sure,” he replied. “Though you still don't strike me as the domestic sort.”

Mehra laughed. “I've never had the chance, really. My first house burned down while I was away.”

“That's some awful luck,” Athis said.

“You have no idea,” Mehra replied. She wasn't sure if the Red Year destroyed Tel Uvirith, or if the Oblivion Crisis did. She shouldn't have built it in the first place; she couldn't stay put when she was younger. Now, though, settling down was quite attractive.

Mehra led Athis through the streets, fascinated at how the evening crowd parted for them. Some nodded, some gave them an open smile and a 'hail, Companions!'. It had been many years since a crowd parted in respect at the sight of her.

They arrived at Breezehome and Mehra grabbed his arm to lead him out of the crowd of people.

“This entire building is yours?” Athis marveled.

“Sure is,” she replied. “Got a good deal on it. I suppose it helps that I helped take care that dragon that attacked the city. I've got friends in high places and whatnot.”

Mehra unlocked the door and swung it open. On instinct, she cast candlelight rather than grabbing and lighting the nearby lantern. Athis eyed the ball off floating light and shrugged.

“Does it feel strange to you that everyone knows who you are?” she asked. “And that they step out of your way?”

“Never thought of it much,” he replied. “It is convenient, though.”

It made her feel strange, but she supposed it was probably better to take Athis' attitude about it and make it a non-issue.

She showed him around the house; both of them noticed the immense size of the Nordic furniture. Just sitting in one chair left her feet unable to rest flat on the floor. Mehra wondered if she could import furniture from Morrowind, but thought against it; she wanted to see how everything panned out first before she made too many more major decisions.

Mehra led him upstairs and opened the door to a small room off to the side.

“Don't know what to do with this room,” she admitted. “The alchemy lab and study is downstairs.”

“Weapons,” Athis said. “You could fit a lot of weapons racks in here. Then, when you get incredibly rich from dragonslaying, you can fill it up.”

Mehra nodded, but wasn't a fan of the idea. She was the kind who had one or two trusty blades and left it at that. As it was, he sounded like he was from Redoran. The thought was distasteful.

With that, she left the small room behind and made her way to the door to the master bedroom.

“Well,” she said, “this will be a surprise. I kind of let Proventius have at it with the house. There was nothing here before.”

Hoping for something good, Mehra opened the door.

A large, double bed with a stuffed mattress took up the majority of the room, with nightstands flanking it. A chest sat on the left side of the room, and a seating area with a small armoire was on the right. Decorations were sparse but tasteful; a woven, Nord-style tapestry hung above the bed, matching those downstairs.

“This bed is huge,” Mehra awed.

Athis shifted next to her. “You could easily fit two horizontally in there,” he smirked.

She glanced back at him and tilted her head to the side. “You mean across-wise?” Mehra asked, feigning innocence.

Athis turned and brushed by her as he left the room. “Any way you'd like it, sera.”

Mehra's eyes followed him hungrily. If they weren't expected back at Jorrvaskr immediately, she'd be breaking her two hundred year dry spell, fraternization rules be damned.

As it was, he was an awful tease.

Shaking her head, she led him out of the house and back into the street. They passed through the city without saying another word. Reaching Jorrvaskr, they split off and went about their business as if nothing happened.

Mehra pulled up a chair off to the side of the great hall and put her head in her hands. Really, she was too old for casual flirting, especially if it led to nothing.

“What's with the intense look, new blood?”

She looked up to see Skjor standing over her, his arms crossed. Mehra didn't know how to answer. Skjor knelt down and stared her in the eyes. Reaching over, he grabbed her shoulder and gave her a friendly shake.

“Meet me at the Underforge after dark,” he said. “We need to talk about your next assignment. And keep it quiet.”

Oh. A secret assignment? Mehra was good at those. “What's the underforge?” she asked. Maybe, she would be able to work on her stealth skills.

“Oh,” he said, “I forgot that you don't know what that is. It's a hidden door beneath the Skyforge where Eorlund works. I will wait outside for you tonight and show you the way. And like I said, keep it between us.”

Mehra nodded. That was fine with her. With his message delivered, Skjor left her at the table.

It wasn't long until Ria found her and asked her to practice swords with her. Mehra practiced with her for a while before dinnertime, holding back a little to make sure she didn't stick out too much. With each day she practiced, whether it was magic or combat, Mehra found it more and more difficult to hide her skill; it was quite tedious as well.

This was the life she chose, however. Once she took care of the dragons, she could probably relax with hiding her abilities to some degree, but she couldn't say how long it would take until the matter was over. As it was, Mehra had to train to be at her peak again, but had to hide her progress as much as possible.

She was doing her best, at any rate. At the very least, there was the Thalmor party coming up. She could let loose there if she ran into trouble.

These thoughts stayed with her through the evening, even as the Companions drank and caroused around her. Mehra went through the motions of replying when asked questions, but kept to herself for the most part. After dinner, she excused herself and left Jorrvaskr with the idea of continuing her enchanting reading.

Her steps took her back to her new house and to the small study on the lower level. Mehra took the College book from her bag and put it on the table in front of her and started reading, hoping to figure out what made a good staff design.

Hours passed, and she seemed to get the idea of it. She'd need a few sheets of paper to draw a design on, then from there, she'd discuss her findings with Eorlund if he was willing to help her out. His Skyforge steel work was some of the greatest she'd ever seen, including the small fragments of knowledge Nerevar imparted to her. Even though she wished she could complement Eorlund in such a manner, Mehra knew that he wasn't one for flattery.

Mehra rubbed her eyes and looked up from her work to peer out the nearby window. It was night now; she ought to go out to meet Skjor at the Underforge.

She left her study as it was, swung her pack over her back, and strapped on her sword. The trusty Blade of Woe hung ready at her side, and after being blessed with it by Erich, she rarely removed it, nor did she remove the tiny assassin blades that she took from Astrid. It was always good to have a hidden blade.

Mehra blew out her tableside lantern and stepped out into the darkened Whiterun. An occasional guard carrying a torch nodded at her as she passed; they all knew she was a Companion, and didn't need to know where she was going. Other cities may not have looked well on an armed person sneaking about in the night, much less a Dunmer.

She made her way to Jorrvaskr, the lack of moonlight from the cloudy night causing her to squint in the dark. If she was to keep this secret, she didn't want to cast candlelight, just in case anyone inside Jorrvaskr was awake.

Crossing the dewy training yard, Mehra saw a figure leaning against the large rock that housed the Skyforge. She tugged on the collar of her armor; it was unseasonably warm that evening, and her recent stay in Winterhold made her more used to the cold.

She approached the person standing at the edge of the courtyard and saw that it was Skjor. He gave her a quick nod as she shifted her bag on her back.

“Are you prepared?” he asked.

“I am ready for my next test,” Mehra nodded.

Skjor gave her a rare smile. “This isn't a test. This is a gift, new blood. Come on inside.”

He tapped on the rock in front of him, and a hidden door opened and slowly slid to the side. A soft light poured out from the hidden room and illuminated the area around them.

“I'm glad you decided to come,” he said. “It's been a long time since we've had a warrior with heart like you among us. That pitiful ceremony in the hall does not befit powerful warriors like us. You are due more honor than some calls and feasting.”

Mehra didn't think so. She just did as she was told and didn't expect much from it. Perhaps, this was what Skjor was looking for. She'd find out soon enough.

Skjor led her into the hidden room, closing the door behind them. The werewolf in the corner of the room made Mehra freeze for a moment before she recognized it. This one looked different from Farkas; the tall, thin creature was quite strong, but had a sort of grace that Farkas lacked, and she was obviously female.

Without a doubt, this was Aela. The telltale pile of armor next to the werewolf confirmed her guess.

“I hope you'd recognize Aela, even in this form,” Skjor said. “She's agreed to be your forebear.”

He paced around an altar with an intricate bowl carved into the top of it. “We do this in secret because Kodlak is too busy trying to throw away this great gift we've been granted. He thinks we've been cursed, but how can something that brings us this kind of prowess be a curse?”

“I suppose it's something up to the individual,” she shrugged. “You're both obviously happy, so why should you change?

Aela nodded in agreement, the tips of her fangs showing in what Mehra supposed was a smile of sorts.

“Exactly,” Skjor nodded. “So, we take matters into our own hands. To reach the heights of the Companions, you must join with us in the shared blood of the wolf. Are you prepared to join your spirit with the beast world, friend?”

Her eyes widened in shock. They wanted her to become a werewolf and join the Circle in secret. Would her body's immunity to disease even allow her to take on lycanthropy? She never caught it during taking care of the Bloodmoon prophecy, so Mehra assumed not.

Even then, she was bound to Azura and she wasn't about to pledge her soul to Hircine.

“We've hit a snag in that plan, my friends,” she said.

Skjor crossed his arms and frowned. “A 'snag'?” he repeated.

Nodding, Mehra swung her bag from her back and opened it up. She reached in and removed Azura's Star from it.

“I'm already married off to another Daedric Lord,” she shrugged. “I don't think they like to share.” Mehra showed them the Star – definitive proof that she belonged to Azura and was her Champion.

Without the Star, she may have had to out herself. Mehra was close enough as-is. The closer she got to people, the harder it became to hide her identity.

“That's a damned shame,” Skjor sighed. “You'd make a hell of a werewolf.”

Aela growled, and Skjor turned to her.

“What?” he asked.

A grunt, something that sounded like a whine, then a nod in Mehra's direction.

“You still want to take her on our hunt?” Skjor asked. “Make her one of us by her actions?”

Skjor turned to Mehra. “You don't have the gift,” he said. “I don't know.”

“I am Dragonborn,” she shrugged. “Am I not a predator?”

Aela grinned, her fangs gleaming in the torchlight.

“This is true,” Skjor admitted. “We did arrange for a surprise, and it would be a shame to let it go to waste, wouldn't it?”

A black mist formed around Aela and she hunched over as her transformation receded. Quickly, she stepped into her clothes and fastened them on in seconds. Aela had her transformation down to an art, and after what Skjor said about lycanthropy being a blessing, Mehra had no doubt that they hunted together as werewolves. It would explain why they disappeared together often.

“We'll head out in a few minutes,” Aela said. “It's not too far away; I'll tell you more about what we're doing on the way. I just need to get my bow and bag.”

Skjor gave them a nod. “I'm going to go out ahead of you. Don't take too long; I'm not going to wait to let you have fun if you dawdle.”

Aela snorted and shook her head as Skjor turned and walked off into the night. She disappeared back inside Jorrvaskr, then came back in a few minutes with her quiver, bow, and a small bag on her back. Aela motioned for Mehra to follow.

They made their way out of the dark city, then took the road that led north toward Ivarstead. Once they were out of hearing range from anyone nearby, Aela turned to her and shook her head.

“This didn't turn out the way I wanted it to completely,” she admitted, “but I'm very pleased you wanted to go with us. The Silver Hand has done enough to threaten our Companions and it's time that we pull the surprise on them, sister.”

Continuing onward, they took a path that led off of the road. The path slowly disappeared uphill in the underbrush. With each step they took, they climbed higher up what felt like a mountain.

Patches of snow clung to the ground under trees and other brush, making the going tough. Eventually, the slope became near impossible to climb, and the brush increased. Mehra stepped over a fallen log, swearing when her foot slipped in the mud.

Aela turned back to steady her.

“You'll be surprised when you see where we end up,” she explained. “We found them holing up at an old fort, abandoned for years. They're like jackals, making their home anywhere they can find. This fort is too close to Whiterun; we've got to take them out.”

They arrived at a wall of brush and Aela grabbed at the thicket. She parted the branches to reveal a clearing that held the remains of an old fort. A crumbled outer wall skirted around the main building, with pine saplings growing up around the front.

"Skjor's in ahead," Aela whispered. "We're going to slaughter them. All of them. Lead on, sister."

Mehra nodded and crept forward with her sword in hand. After how the Silver Hand set a trap for Farkas, she wanted to be cautious. When she made it to the wall, she flattened herself against the outside, peered around the archway, and frowned.

There, across a rotting plankway, were three of the Silver Hand. It stood to reason that if Skjor was here already, then there would at least be bodies outside. She didn't like how this looked. Turning back, she flattened herself against the wall again, and signaled to Aela that there were three up high.

Aela nodded and readied her arrows as Mehra let a fireball form in her hand. They exchanged a nod and darted out from cover.

Their attack took the Silver Hand by surprise; between the spell and Aela's deadly aim, the enemies were gone in seconds.

The pair checked around for more enemies, but found none. Three was a laughable defense; either they weren't expected, or the Silver Hand wanted them to come inside.

Mehra looked around for more signs, and finally found some. If it weren't for the large, distinctive footprints in the snow, she would have wondered if Skjor was even there.

She glanced over at the rotting, hastily built wooden door covering the entrance to the fort and frowned in disgust. Werewolf heads on pikes flanked the door. Shaking her head, she approached the door, opened it, and let out a breath of disgust as the smell of blood hit her from inside the fort. Lit braziers stood on both sides of the inside room, and more werewolf heads on pikes decorated the area.

For a so-called holy order, the Silver Hand's methods were barbaric.

At the far end of the room was a barred entrance. Aela shook her head and yanked on a nearby pullchain. The metal bars slid down with a rusty squeal.

"Look at this,” Aela said. “Cowards must have locked the place down after Skjor charged in. You can taste the fear."

Mehra wasn't so sure. The entire situation was off, from the lack of signs of fighting, to the presence of guards out front.

She kept the thought in the back of her mind as she and Aela went down the stairs to come to another large room filled with Silver Hand. Together, they dispatched them with little trouble. A fighter such as Skjor ought to have had no trouble taking these out. But where were the bodies, if Skjor was there?

Mehra looked to the side of the room and stared in disgust. There, in nearby weapons closet, a werewolf hung, nailed up by his paw, a pool of blood under him.

“Horrible way to go,” she murmured, “held up by the hand and made to bleed out. That's not putting a creature out of its misery.”

“Nobody we know, by the smell,” Aela admitted. “This poor sod could be anyone. Some can't separate the animal from themselves and go feral. We should keep moving.”

Mehra nodded quietly and turned away from the werewolf. She crept her way down the stairs and into the next room with Aela in tow. Sure enough, there were more Silver Hand at the bottom. Mehra charged in with her sword and fire spell as Aela picked off the ones further in the back. It wasn't much of a fight; their weak hide armor made them into easy targets.

As she pulled her sword from the last of them, Mehra pursed her lips. “Someone's got to talk to Athis about his armor,” she said. “Not that I mind the view, but it's not very practical.”

Aela snorted. She peered absently at the dead werewolves in the cells lining the walls of the room. “I can tell you don't mind the view,” she chuckled, “can smell it a mile away on both of you. Mind what I said, Sister. I don't mind it, but the others may.”

Mehra nodded mutely. So, her suspicion that the werewolves could smell changes in body chemistry was correct. It could very well mean that they were capable of smelling the dishonesty on her if someone asked a question about her life.

Well, she'd worry about that when the time came. They had no reason to question her yet, and she wasn't about to give them a reason to start.

Mehra peered over at a nearby table and grabbed a bag of gold from it. Aela regarded her with a chuckle, and Mehra hesitated.

"I need the money," she said, "spent most of what I had on a house, you know."

Aela smiled. "Nothing wrong with that. Take whatever you want from this scum."

They continued to fight their way through the fort, Aela's bravado increasing the deeper they went. Mehra couldn't tell if she was nervous, or genuinely felt as if they had the Silver Hand quaking in their boots. Whatever the case, there was no sign of Skjor, even as they neared what was possibly the far end of the fort.

Eventually, Aela stopped her in front of a large, wooden door and motioned for her to come close.

"We're getting close to their leader now," she whispered. "Be careful; they call him 'the Skinner'. I don't think I need to tell you why."

Mehra nodded and inched the door open, a spell ready on her hand. Aela readied an arrow in her bow then gave her a nod that she was ready.

Throwing the door open, Mehra burst into the room with Aela behind her. Offhand, she counted seven Silver Hand, each one ready and waiting for them.

Mehra threw up a ward at the sight of archers. A pair of arrows struck her barrier and fell to the ground. Behind her, Aela rapid-fired in retaliation, keeping the less-skilled archers busy with having to deflect and evade her quick draw.

A man in full plate armor charged forward with a broadsword and headed straight for Mehra. Dodging his blow, Mehra whirled forward with her sword and the Blade of Woe. The dagger caught the armpit Skinner's armor and sank deeply into flesh.

A shout of pain sounded behind his helmet. Her enemy redoubled his efforts, but Mehra was faster. She dodged yet another swing of the broadsword and whirled around. Her sword connected with his neck and severed his head from his shoulders.

She jumped away from the falling body just as Aela shot the last of the archers. Mehra turned to say something to her about a job well done, but stopped as she saw the Huntress' shocked face. She followed her line of sight to the back of the room.

Skjor lay in a bloody heap on the ground, unmoving. Mehra watched Aela run over to her fallen friend and stared on in silence. She hated that her suspicions were correct.

Skjor was dead. The fort was a trap.

 


	14. Chapter 14

    A/n: Hey everyone! I'm sorry for the delay in this chapter. The next one may be delayed a bit as well. My fibromyalgia has been flaring up lately so writing hasn't been as easy. I know what I want to say, but getting the words on the page can be difficult at times. Thanks for waiting so patiently!
    
    
    

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    _When we understand the events that occur to us, the events become history. History is understanding. Otherwise we are all just dumb animals trying to get in out of the cold. -Hasphat Antabolis_

 

 

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4E 201. Shivering Isles.

 

The greenmote took the edge off. It always made him remember the brighter side of life – the other half of his personality that told him that there was nothing to worry about. Why worry when there was song? Art? Passion? Bliss? The greenmote?

Ah, the greenmote.

Erich slumped in his seat and curled his toes into the plush carpet that lay at the foot of his throne. He wanted to strip naked and wrap himself up in it, just to feel the texture. Really, what was he worrying about before? It was something about –

Hm. Jyggalag. Yes, that was a concern of sorts.

He looked up to see Sanguine standing at the end of the room. Erich narrowed his eyes.

“Who let you in?” he asked.

Sanguine shrugged. “I showed myself in. 'Let in' has nothing to do with it. Nobody 'lets' us anything; we do what we want.”

“And here you are,” Erich replied, “in my domain, doing what you want. What am I supposed to think about that?”

“I can go outside and knock,” he frowned. “Really, this is silly. I'm here to talk; that's all.”

Was he, though? Erich didn't quite know what to believe, but the greenmote made him think that maybe, it wasn't such a big deal.

“Listen,” Sanguine said, “just, listen. Then you can make your judgment.”

Erich crossed his arms and frowned. “Fine.”

Sanguine approached the throne and stood in front of him, his arms crossed. “I'm going to just throw it out there: Jyggalag was a prick.”

Sheogorath arched a brow at him and the daedra shook his head.

“Not a fun prick,” he elaborated. “As in, 'constantly ordering everything' kind of a prick. Anything we did, he rearranged back into order. Drunken orgies? Forget it. He found a way to meter the alcohol out to precisely one glass per person and made it impossible for their clothes to come off.”

“Gave Azura's domain a full day-to-night cycle,” he continued. “Assigned a gender to Boethiah. Cleaned up the Ash in Malacath's domain entirely. Put out the fires in the Deadlands so things could grow easier. Gave Molag Bal erectile dysfunction. Gave Peryite's followers throat lozenges. Stabilized Quagmire and filled it with candy and puppies. Turned Nocturnal's ravens speechless. Arranged every book in Apocrypha in alphabetical order, according to author.”

Sheogorath swore. Blasphemies innumerable! No wonder they imprisoned Jyggalag into the form of a chaotic being.

“And those were some of the more mild things he did,” Sanguine frowned. “We had to do something. He was undermining all of us, and his power was so strong that we had to unite to do it.”

That made sense, then.

“It has nothing to do with you,” Sanguine said. “And it won't. We know you're very powerful in your own right. But you don't bother any of us enough to warrant a meeting of any sort, and I doubt you ever will.”

“Alright then,” Erich replied. “So, why did you come here to tell me this?”

Sanguine uncrossed his arms and gave him a once-over. “Couldn't leave it alone.”

“Couldn't leave what alone?” He pressed.

Smirking, Sanguine stepped forward. He summoned his rose-shaped staff in his hand and shrugged. “That's for you to find out.”

He tapped his staff on the ground and disappeared, leaving Erich blinking at the space he once occupied. Strange fellow, that Sanguine. If he wanted in his pants or something, all he had to do was ask. Then again, maybe he was just playing the game.

But his pants weren't big enough for two, really. He liked them quite tight– a holdover from his assassin past, perhaps. He'd have to get an oversized pair just for the occasion.

Shrugging it off, Erich thought about what he'd do next. He knew now about Jyggalag and why he was imprisoned, and while it would likely be a subject of paranoia from time to time, he suspected that it wouldn't be a common part of his Demented swings in the future.

But, what was he to do? The Isles were in their natural balance, and that Thalmor party was soon, but not soon enough to relieve his boredom. Maybe, he ought to take a walk.

He nodded to himself. Yes, a walk would be nice. Perhaps he could visit the mortal plane, just to check up on it. Nobody would suspect a man like him walking around if he concealed the claws, slit pupils, and fangs.

With his mind made up, Sheogorath cast a quick spell to humanize himself, then donned a look he typically would have worn while adventuring through Cyrodiil– steel-capped boots, leather pants and armored leather top, gloves without fingertips, waist length cape with hood, and a sword and dagger at his side.

Satisfied that he looked normal, he summoned his staff. Maybe Ivarstead would be an interesting place to visit; he hadn't seen it in about two hundred years. Erich wondered if he had bastard descendants wandering around the place. It was likely, given his past.

He tapped his staff on the ground and teleported himself between planes to the site of his parents' farm. Blinking, he looked around. Grass overtook the area, and nothing remained aside from the small, open crater of the stone root cellar that used to lie beneath the floor of the house. Last time he saw it, the house was a charred mess, the same as the small stable. Mercifully, someone took it upon themselves to inter his parents within the barrow and clean up the animals; had he seen what happened to his parents, it might have broken him before he had the chance to get his revenge against Dagon.

Erich walked toward the cellar and frowned. This didn't look right. It didn't feel right. This was –

The toe of his boot caught the edge of something, sending him stumbling toward the ground.

“No!”

He froze in mid-air from the word alone. Staring down at the ground, Erich tossed his hair and cape back over his head. He didn't want to fall on his face, and he didn't have to. He couldn't be made to do anything anymore. Erich righted himself to stand on his feet again and chuckled. When he was mortal, everyone in his family liked to remind him that 'no' was his first word. Erich was so stubborn that he believed it; he was a 'no' kind of guy and didn't do a damned thing he didn't want to do.

Now, what dared to trip him?

He looked down at the ground, expecting to see a rock. Instead, a piece of dark metal jutted out of the ground where his boot disturbed it. Erich toed it, but it didn't budge. Curious, he knelt down, removed the piece of metal from the ground, and knocked the dirt off of it to get a better look.

Oh.

Da's steel plowhead. He paid a small fortune for that thing. Said it would outlast all of them, including Erich and his silly dreams of going to Winterhold or gods-knew-where to do something different than do his duty and stay on the farm.

He sighed and placed it in an Oblivion pocket next to his staff; he'd bring it to the barrow. Da couldn't spend his eternity without his damned steel plowhead, could he?

Erich pressed his hand against the spot where the plowhead had been and wished for flowers. When he removed it, a patch of tiny, blue flowers – forget me nots – sprung up from the ground. Wiping his hand on his pants, he thought about how effortless the action had been.

“See,” he mumbled, “I can grow whatever I want now. Not worthless at all.”

It was a silly sentiment, really.

Shaking his head, Erich turned from the remains of the farm and made his way to the road that led to Ivarstead. It felt strange to head toward a barrow with the idea in mind of giving something precious to a mortal interred within.

He was getting more sentimental than Azura, but so long as nobody knew, he supposed it would be alright. Erich continued down the road and paused when the town came into view.

Ivarstead didn't look the same. Buildings weren't in the right place, and they looked more modern. He thought it was poor luck that an Oblivion gate opened in front of his parents' farm a few miles down the road, but given the state of Ivarstead, he wasn't so sure.

An ugly thought came to him: If Mehrunes Dagon found out who he was during the Crisis, it probable that he intentionally attacked the things Erich most held dear.

He glanced up at the top of the mountain and frowned. Did the Greybeards sit and watch as Daedra ransacked the town? Their order lived on; Ivarstead as he'd known it clearly hadn't.

Against his better judgment, Erich approached the town to take a better look. The barrow sat at the far edge of the town as it always had, as did the bridge leading up to the Throat of the World. Everything else, however, wasn't in the same spot.

Off to the side, he felt something familiar in the grass. Curious, Erich approached it and peered down.

In the middle of a tall patch of grass, a pair of broken obsidian stones sat, their volcanic composition strange amid the slate castoff rocks from the mountain. He supposed that he was one of the few who would have noticed such a thing. Erich knelt down, touched the stone closest to him, and jerked back at the flash of fire across his vision.

Oblivion gate.

Pursing his lips, he reached out again. Erich closed his eyes and tapped into the residual fear and hatred of the broken gate. He saw a vision of fire – Mehrunes Dagon's vision for the future of Tamriel, an unending cycle of suffering and pain.

Erich felt a frayed string in there, tied to the essence of the ruined gate. Curious, he tugged it with his mind.

He found himself seeing Mehrunes Dagon himself, his scarred face scowling as he stared back at Erich. His scarred face: Erich did that to him with the Finger of the Mountain when he was but a mortal, and now, he saw the damage with his own eyes.

It made him feel bold.

“You are bound there,” Erich hissed, “but if you find some way to come back, I will strive against you again, and this time, I will be thousands of times more powerful than I was back then. I will trick your own arms to fight against you, and that will be the least of your worries.”

Satisfied with his threat, Erich snapped the fragile string and severed the connection. He stood, took one last glance at the broken Oblivion gate, and walked away.

Thunder sounded in the distance.

Erich stepped into town as the sky darkened. He stopped at the sight of a young, tanned woman preparing the soil at a small plot of land. Chickens pecked and scratched at the ground in their pen near the farmhouse behind her, while further back, a pair of goats nested themselves into a pile of hay. It was disturbingly familiar.

She noticed him staring, stood, and gave him a once-over.

“Hello, handsome stranger,” the young woman smiled. “You must have so much to tell about the world outside this boring old town.”

Erich gave her a smile. He remembered feeling the same way when he was her age.

“I've seen a lot,” he admitted. “I'll tell you though; this place isn't so bad.”

“Really?” she drawled.

“Really. Reminds me of the town I came from.”

She put her pitchfork into the ground and gave him a dubious look. “My name's Fastred. What's yours, stranger?”

“Erich,” he replied.

“Well, Erich,” she said, “you're quite pale for an adventurer. Practically glowing, you are.”

He laughed and drew the hood of his cape up over his head. Oops.

“It's a myth that all Nords tan,” he countered, “you know better, silly.”

She nodded. “I'll give you that. So, what brings you here to Ivarstead, Mr. Erich? Come to climb the mountain?”

He peered up to the top of the mountain and shook his head. Erich made that treacherous climb long ago; it wasn't likely that it changed since then.

“Going to leave an offering at the barrow, actually,” he replied.

“Oh,” she frowned, “that place is haunted. I'd be careful if I were you.”

“Haunted?” he repeated.

“Mhm. You can talk to Wilhelm about it. He runs the inn.”

Erich turned his eyes toward the barrow and looked at it critically. Maybe it wasn't haunted; there was something insane going on over there, though. He sensed it with barely a thought. Shrugging, Erich turned toward the barrow.

“You sure, Mister?” Fastred said. “An adventurer decided to go in there a year ago and never came back. I owe you a fair warning.”

Erich turned to her and smirked. “I've seen a lot worse than a ghost or two.”

Mannimarco, the planes of Oblivion, Mehrunes Dagon, and the angered voice of the Night Mother telling him to kill Mehra when she discovered his identity were all much worse than a confused, angry spirit.

He left the farm girl to her work and took the worn path up to the overgrown barrow. Really, the people were so superstitious here that they didn't care for their own dead for fear of a curse.

Erich took the stone stairs up to the barrow, then circled around to the back where the barrow door was located. He stopped in front of the large, ebony door and closed his eyes.

There was a time when he stood here long ago. He remembered holding Ma's hand and staring at the carvings of the door. The bundle of aster flowers felt heavy in his other hand, sweat and heat from his palm making the stems go somewhat limp. Someone old died. They were paying respects.

Aside from the wrinkled face and long, silver hair, he didn't remember the woman. Grandmother, maybe? That wasn't the word they used for her, if she was. Who was that old woman?

Erich blinked and shook his head. From what he remembered of her, she wouldn't be in the barrow as a vengeful spirit. He'd have to let the mystery be.

Opening the door, the sight of old, rough boards greeted him. They spiraled downward into the earth, roots from nearby trees winding along with them against the barrow's walls. Oddly enough, a series of lit candles stood at the top of the barrow.

He descended the stairs, boards creaking under his weight. When he reached the bottom of stairs, he saw a lit brazier to the left.

Must have been lit by the resident crazy person. Ghosts didn't need light. Shrugging, Erich passed under a broken pillar that leaned across the barrow's foyer, and stepped into the crypt. He looked to his right and saw a pale apparition of the adventurer that entered the ruins some time ago standing behind a gate.

"Leave this place!" the apparition demanded. "Leave!"

Erich clutched his sides and laughed. That wasn't a ghost at all; he saw no ectoplasm. In fact, he clearly saw the strange potion resting in the man's stomach that made him look like a ghost to the average person.

Shaking his head, he decided to play along and let the apparition disappear down the hallway before forcing the gate open with a gesture of his hand.

Erich stopped at the sight of the chest that the gate revealed. Without a second thought, he could ask it to open, and it would unlock and reveal its secrets to him. There was a time when he carried a bag of lockpicks; with practice, there was no lock that could keep him out. Out of curiosity and a desire to do the mundane, Erich told a lockpick and tension wrench to take form in his hand. He knelt down in front of the chest and examined the lock.

The hook pick was often the correct one, but it wasn't certain until he inserted it into the lock. Of course, Erich's divine knowledge informed him that it was correct for the lock in question, and the ease by which he knew this took some of the fun out of the matter.

But still, it felt nice to indulge his old burglar side.

Slowly, he pushed the pick into the mouth of the lock, pushing past the first tumbler and pushing it out of the way. His right hand turned the tension wrench slightly as he adjusted the pick with his left.

Who was that guy pretending to be a ghost?

Erich glanced up from his work and stared off to the depths of the barrow. He saw the life force of the man – his name was Wyndelius.

“Locks are kind of like women,” Sheogorath mumbled, “gotta have the right finesse with them. She may not always like your pick, but a tension wrench is always standard to get going with things. If you're not too good, you can use your rake pin, but don't rake too roughly unless she wants it that way. Could break your lock or something. Lots of beginners go for the rake because you rely on the tension wrench to do the opening. You listening, Wyndelius?”

The only sound that came from the crypt was of the locked chest popping open. He looked down and sighed. What was he talking about? Something about raking women.

Raking? Picking? Wrenching wenches?

He pursed his lips. Sanguine would know something about that one.

He continued through the barrow, keeping an eye out for his parents. Erich passed through a hallway filled with rows of the dead, until he came to the end where another passage intersected it. He shrugged and turned left.

As he rounded the corner, saw the man who pretended to be an apparition. The Dunmer adventurer must have gone to the crypt in search of treasure. Unfortunately for him, something happened to make him go insane.

"Look, I know you're not really a ghost," Erich sighed. "Let that potion wear off and we can chat."

“Who goes there?” the man shouted. He turned every which way to try to see where the voice came from. Sure enough, the potion wore off, and Wyndelius became a mere man once more.

Erich stepped out from the darkness in his true form – fangs and all – and smiled. “Guess who,” he said.

Wyndelius backed up, his eyes wide.

“Come on now,” Erich chuckled, “you can't be getting shy now. I'm just a gentleman with a cane, you know.”

“N-no! It can't be!” he cried, “I-I'm not crazy!”

Sheogorath crossed his arms and frowned. “Now, if Daddy Crazy says you're insane, then you're insane, my boy. That's all there is to it.”

“I won't let you take me!”

Wyndelius charged forward with a dagger. Furious that he dared to attempt to harm him, Erich cuffed the man and threw him against the wall, his head connecting with the hard stone with a crack. Wyndelius slumped forward and was still.

Erich stared at the starburst of blood on the wall and sat down roughly. This happened before, somewhere. What was that person's name? That guy raped a girl and killed her and Lucien sent him to kill the guy back.

“Rufio,” he mumbled.

Yes, that was his name. Erich went to warn him, but flew into a rage when he found out what the man had done. Was that how the Brotherhood got him, then? A vengeance killing?

The thought left a sour taste in his mouth. They manipulated him into joining by appealing to his sense of justice.

“No more,” Erich sighed. He chose his own path.

Slowly, he stood and stared dispassionately at the small home Wyndelius set up in the barrow. A bed lay in the corner, and a rough bookshelf stood next to it to hold clothing and trinkets. An alchemist's table stood at the far end, and the man even managed to drag in a rotting carpet from deeper in the barrow to make the room homey. There was a time when he would have rifled through everything to take things of value. Objects held no value to him any longer, save his own artifacts. Whatever he wanted, he could conjure.

He turned and left the room behind, intent on finding the final resting place of his mortal parents. Then, he'd stop with these silly visits with his past memories.

Erich stared down the hallway that intersected the entrance to the barrow. There, at the far end, was the claw door. Figuring he ought to go deeper, Erich took off down the reeking hallway and into the chamber that housed the door.

He'd never been this deep inside a barrow before. Whoever found his parents' bodies at the farm interred them within. There was something to be said about the loyalty of Nords; they would bury a stranger and give them their rights without a second thought.

Erich looked at the carved walls in disinterest, then turned to the door that led deeper. The artwork held no interest to him as it would have in the past; from a mere glance, he knew the artists, their intent, and every detail of the work.

Godhood really took the mystery out of life, sometimes, but it was better than the alternative.

Shaking his head, Erich stepped up to the door. He placed his fingers into the holes that the claw was supposed to occupy, and turned the puzzle with his mind. The door slid down with little resistance.

"So lazy now, Erich," he mumbled. "Lazier than you've ever been."

He took a set of stairs down into the depths of the cold barrow, the smell of death increasing with each step. The path took him to a main chamber that was lined with ancient, stone crypts. Erich glanced around and saw nobody familiar. Deciding to continue, he stepped onto a rotting, blue carpet that ran the stretch of the room.

A crack sounded in the stone behind him, followed by several others. The lids to the nearby crypts popped open and fell to the ground as the undead rose from the grave to see who disturbed him.

The draugr stood before him in a circle, their weapons drawn. He held his hand up in a gesture of peace.

"Hold, brothers," Erich said. "I have no quarrel with you."

"You belong here," one hissed.

He swallowed and stared down at the stone floor. Yes, he could do whatever he wanted now. It didn't change the fact that he defied the laws of nature and the laws of the Aedra themselves.

"I was afraid," he admitted. "Afraid of the Void. Afraid of the cold dark. Terrified of the unending silence: finality."

"Weakling."

Erich closed his eyes. "Sometimes, yes."

He didn't have to take this. He was Sheogorath.

Erich was a God.

"Go back to sleep, ancestor," he said. "I am here to speak with my parents. To give Da his plowhead."

The draugr narrowed his eyes then turned back toward his crypt. One by one, the undead returned to their resting places until the room was filled with the eerie silence of the grave once again.

The cobwebs surrounding his past were beginning to burn up, and his visit to the farm and Ivarstead brought him a discomforting amount of clarity. He was separate from this world.

Why was he even here, if he was so separate? Could it be something as trivial as closure?

These thoughts carried him as he continued deeper into the barrow, through winding corridors and smaller crypt rooms. The smell of oil and embalming fluid greeted him as he entered a large chamber. Erich walked across the worn, wooden walkway lining the top of the room and glanced down to see a group of skeletons standing in the middle of a puddle of oil.

"Hey," he called, "watch out with that oil. There's a lantern above. I'd hate an accident to happen to you all."

The creatures turned unseeing eyes toward him, then shuffled away. Skeletons weren't too bright, but it couldn't be helped. After all, they had no brains left. In fact, it was quite a wonder that they had the wherewithal to attack something in the first place.

Erich continued deeper into the barrow, searching for his parents' resting place. Knowing his luck, they'd be at the far end, interred somewhere in the secret passage that led back to the entrance to the barrow.

He closed his eyes and sighed. That was likely exactly where they were. He'd have to go deeper in order to come back out. Maybe the stranger who buried them hid them with the suspicion that the daedra would try to find them and keep their eternal souls within Oblivion.

Erich wound his way through the barrow, bored with the whole thing. Eventually, he entered what he assumed was the end of the barrow: a large crypt lay at the deepest part, with water flowing about the base of large, interconnected platforms. The crypts stayed shut as Erich walked past them to examine the large wall at the far end.

Hm. The runes were written in dragon tongue. The inscription immortalized Hela, a servant of Kyne. Maybe Mehra could use one of these words. He wasn't a dragon, so he didn't know.

With the carving memorized, he turned to the back of the room and found the pull-chain that opened the hidden door that led back to the entrance.

Sure enough, as he neared the end of the long passageway, Erich saw a row of burial urns resting on a bookshelf that stood against the wall. He examined each one until he came across a pair of urns that unmistakably housed the remains of his parents.

They were nice urns, really. Da may even have been embarrassed by how intricately they were carved, as well as the gold paint that accented them. Erich pursed his lips as he stared at the urns. Well, he was here. What was he going to do? Summon his father's shade and tell him what he did?

Oh, an excellent idea, really.

Erich allowed red to bleed into his hair so that they could recognize him as they'd seen him before. Best to not shock them immediately.

Then again, if he drove their spirits insane, maybe he could keep them.

He shook his head and chided himself. “That's not how it works and you know it.”

Erich took the plowhead out of his Oblivion pocket and held it tightly. With his other hand, he reached out and touched the pair of urns, mumbling an incantation to bring their souls back from their resting place. A mist slowly formed in front of him until it took the spectral shape of his parents.

Da crossed his arms immediately at the sight of him. “Erich,” he said. “Came back, eh?”

“In a way, Da.”

Da let his arms drop and sighed. “Well, if you'd'a stayed on the farm,” he said, “those daedra would have gotten you, too. I suppose that's right, then.”

“I brought your plowhead,” Erich said. “Figured you might like it next to your urn.”

Erich reached forward and attempted to place the plowhead in Da's hands, but it fell through to the ground. Oh, yeah. Ectoplasm.

Shaking his head, he leaned over, picked it up, and placed it on the shelf next to Da's urn, earning a rare smile from the man as Ma chuckled.

“You were always a good boy, Erich,” she said. “Just had an itch in your feet. I knew you'd come back someday. And my, how you've grown! You're a handsome adventurer now. What year is it, anyway?”

“Fourth Era,” he replied, “year two hundred and one.”

Da nodded slowly and Ma gasped in shock.

“My goodness!” she said. “You're two hundred and twenty nine years old now! You don't look a day past your twenties, dear. Did you become a wizard?”

“Somewhat.”

“Somewhat?” Da repeated.

Better to let it out, he supposed.

“I have ascended,” Erich said.

He dropped all the spells that bound him to a mortal appearance. He knew what they saw: the incomprehensible beauty and terror that came from seeing a Daedra Lord with their own eyes – a stunning display of warped divinity that barely contained itself within the form he chose to keep.

His parents shrank back in fear.

“W-what are you?” Da whispered.

“I have become the next Sheogorath,” he replied. He had hoped that it would have been obvious from his appearance, but maybe, it wasn't.

Erich knew the next question before they could ask it. The only problem was, he didn't quite know how it happened either. Rather than speaking, he opted to reach out and implant the story of his legacy into their minds: from his humble beginnings on the Waterfront, to his study of magic, joining the Dark Brotherhood, defeating Mannimarco, helping Martin relight the Dragonfires and throw Mehrunes Dagon back into Oblivion, meeting Mehra, and freeing Jyggalag from his prison.

“So, that's it, then?” Da said. “You've done some terrible things to go along with the good, Erich.”

“I can't change it now,” he shrugged. “I have plans though. Plans that don't involve the Night Mother or the Void.”

“It was quite an adventure,” Ma said. “Was it fun, at least? Saving the world, that is.”

Erich sighed and closed his eyes. He spent so much time in the Shivering Isles since then – surveying his kingdom, beheading traitors, throwing lavish parties where he invited the commanders of his armies back to his bed – that it was difficult to remember.

“It hurt sometimes,” he concluded. “No matter where I went, I never quite fit in. Somehow, Mehra got it. I loved her very much.”

“Have you met the other Daedra yet, dear?” Ma asked. “Are they treating you nicely?”

Goodness sakes, Ma. Erich chuckled.

“Sanguine's come by to say hello,” he said. “But we really don't have a moral scale. We just are.”

“Sanguine,” Da said. “Well, could be worse.”

Erich nodded. Sanguine was – well, he had to figure that one out. And added to the list of things he didn't understand or know was how he felt about talking to his mortal parents.

“I need to go,” he announced. “I've done too much. I shouldn't be here. I don't do things for –”

What? Mortals? Because he was starting to do a hell of a lot of things for mortals, lately. He turned to leave, but Ma's words stopped him in his tracks.

“I'll always love you, Erich,” she said.

He couldn't exactly say that he returned the sentiment. That fact bothered him more than it should have.

“I never said it while I was alive,” Da sighed. “But knowing the kind of man you became, and despite the horrors you inflicted on others, I am proud of you, son. You rose to the challenge of near impossible odds.”

There were the words that he desperately craved when he was mortal – words that may have even made him stay on the farm rather than go off to the Imperial City in search of fulfillment. The fact that his father was proud of him was meaningless now.

“I have to go,” he lied, “gotta go do god stuff. Have fun! Say hello to Auntie! Ta-ta!”

They said a hurried goodbye as Erich made their souls return to beyond the grave. As soon as they were gone, he left out a breath of relief and glanced around the empty passageway. Really, this was one of the dumbest ideas he had yet.

Erich took the way out and wound his way back to the barrow's rotting spiral staircase. Rain dripped down into the crypt, making the boards slick and allowing the stench of death to rise upward.

His mood soured as he threw open the door to the barrow and watched rain pour down from the sky through the arched awnings that lined the circumference of the barrow. What did he gain from summoning the mortals who created him?

Sighing, Erich stepped out of the barrow and into the downpour. His feet took him nowhere in particular; he followed no path and wandered through the knee-height grass as the rain soaked through his clothing.

Within minutes, however, things became familiar. The sight of a sunken-in hole in the ground made him stop. Erich blinked as he stared at his surroundings. He was back at the farm again.

Why was he here? Why did his feet take him to this place again?

He thought of something Martin Septim said to him long ago: 'What does it mean to you, though? What of stopping Mehrunes Dagon, if you're into such dark and terrible deeds? I think as mortals, we're always searching for meaning and reason behind something.'

Erich knelt down in front of the old farmhouse and traced what remained of the foundation with his fingers. He remembered playing here as a child, running out of the house, wooden door slamming behind him as he went to meet friends outside. Was there a meaning here?

Erich stared up at the sky, rain pouring down on him, running off the tip of his nose, matting his hair to his neck and his cape to his back.

“Got news for you, Martin buddy,” he mumbled.

“I am God and I have no idea what anything means.”

 

* * *

 

 

4E 201. Whiterun.

 

They finished with the fort by mid-day and their trip back was spent in silence with Aela visibly seething. By the time they reached Jorrvaskr once again, the sun was far below the horizon. Night brought a cold snap that set a chill through Mehra's body and turned her breath to fog in the air.

They stopped in front of the door, and Aela turned back to give Mehra a reassuring nod and squeezed her hand. Since Mehra had nothing to do with the plans, she wasn't going to be the one to break the news of Skjor to the rest of the Companions. Aela felt it her duty, and Mehra didn't protest. She hadn't known Skjor for as long, nor had she been a Companion for any considerable amount of time.

Aela opened the door to Jorrvaskr and led Mehra inside. She followed meekly behind the Nord, her stomach sour. Despite Aela's insistence to the contrary, Mehra felt partially responsible. She ought to have asked Skjor to stay back and charge the Silver Hand together as a team.

The door slammed shut behind them, the sharp sound ringing throughout the giant hall. They were greeted with cheers, smiles, and raised tankards. Each Companion, from Kodlak down to the servants of the hall, was seated at the table.

Telling everyone now was as good of a time as any, and Aela's glance back to her told Mehra that she shared the sentiment.

“Back from your hunt?” Kodlak asked.

Aela stepped forward into the light and stood in front of the table. Her chin quivered in a rare show of emotion.

“Skjor is dead.”

A pall of silence fell over the Companions at the announcement. Each stared at Aela, waiting for an answer, save Njada, who sent a glare in Mehra's direction.

“We inducted Mehra into the Circle,” Aela continued, “then we took her out to kill a den of Silver Hand. Skjor went in ahead of us and was killed.”

Farkas frowned and looked over at Mehra. “She doesn't look or smell like a werewolf, sister.”

A gasp sounded at the far end of the table. Ria clamped her hands over her mouth; apparently she and the others who weren't in the Circle didn't know about the Companions' werewolf secret.

“So, you're just going to out us like that?” Aela spat. “She is sworn to Azura. I'm not going to meddle in daedric business and Skjor didn't want to either. We took her on a hunt anyway; Dragonborn is a predator, too.”

Kodlak stood and held his hand up to silence them.

“What were you thinking, going in there?” He asked. “Though Skjor was ultimately responsible for his own decisions, you could have both gotten the new girl killed.”

At her seat next to Vilkas, Njada quietly seethed, her face growing more and more red with each passing second.

Aela bit her lip. “Yes, Harbinger, I –”

“I want to know what's so special about this new girl,” Njada hissed. “I have worked tirelessly. So has Athis, so has Torvar, and so has Ria. This girl shows up and does two chores, disappears and comes back and says she's a wizard, and she goes along and gets Skjor killed. Two chores! Punches a guy in the face and accompanies Farkas to a cave to get a shard of Wuuthrad. We have done dozens of things for the Companions and have done so with nothing but honor, but she is recognized over us!”

The other low-ranked Companions stared at her in silence. Mehra wasn't sure if they shared her sentiment or not; it was a fair thought, at any rate. They did work hard for what seemed like nothing, and she wasn't sure if it was fate, or if her uncanny knack for success wherever she went followed her to the Companions. How in the hell could they compete against the Nerevarine, anyway? The odds were against them from the start.

It didn't sit right with Mehra. Wasn't she supposed to live her second chance at life with honor? What kind of honor was this?

“It is true,” Vilkas admitted. “While I admit that our newest addition is quite skilled, the achievements of the others have gone completely ignored.”

Kodlak sighed and nodded. “The Companions do not measure rank by seniority, but I can see where this has become a problem. It's not Mehra's fault, however. She was promoted much before her time, and I still do not know what possessed Skjor to –”

“I take full responsibility,” Mehra interrupted. “I was the eldest and most responsible. This has gone on long enough.”

Mehra stood, removed the Moon-and-Star, and tossed it into the middle of the empty table. Leaning forward, Athis peered at the ring and nearly fell out of his chair when he recognized the pattern. The others stared at it in confusion, but they would soon know of its significance.

“I am two hundred and thirty three years old,” she said, “though my soul is much, much older. I am the reincarnation of Nerevar Indoril, Champion of Azura and of the Chimeri people. Some two hundred years ago, I killed Dagoth Ur in his lair beneath Red Mountain as the Nerevarine. I hoped to hide myself and start a new life, but I see now that hiding my identity has borne unintended consequences. This ring is my sign from Azura herself; if anyone who isn't Nerevar attempts to wear it, they will die. Punish me as you see fit.”

The Companions stared at her in silence, some believing, some appearing confused and skeptical. Finally, Aela crossed her arms and sighed.

“Explains why you have Azura's Star,” she said. “Why tell us, then? Why are you outing yourself?”

Mehra lifted her head and stared her in the eyes. “Because we are Companions. I trust this group and this group alone with this information. If word got out, there would be chaos in Morrowind as well as the rest of the Empire.”

Aela nodded. That answer was sufficient.

“What's this 'Nerevarine' thing?” Farkas asked. “Is that some kind of Dunmer legend?”

“Yes,” Athis said. “The Nerevarine is the reincarnation of Nerevar Indoril, Lord of the First Council. In the Third Era, Dagoth Ur spread a great disease throughout Vvardenfell with the intention to turn everyone into Ash creatures. Without the Nerevarine's intervention, he would have used the power of the Heart of Lorkhan to spread his plague across Tamriel.”

Farkas tilted his head to the side. “Sounds important,” he grumbled. “You may even get me to read a book about it. Was that Shor's Heart, then?”

“Shor or Lorkhan,” Mehra replied, “it doesn't matter too much now. The heart is gone. Its power was not meant for the mortal plane.”

Kodlak stared at the Moon-and-Star. Weary, he ran his hands through his hair. “Each one of you made your own decisions,” he said. “Aela and Skjor both, to hide this unsanctioned induction. Sjkor, to go in ahead without a shield-companion. And you, Mehra, went along with this scheme to hunt down a den of Silver Hand.”

“We avenged him,” Aela said. “At least, partially. The person who killed him is dead. It's not enough.”

“It will never be enough,” Kodlak admitted. “This is a day where our souls must cry, and our hearts will answer. Go. Grieve in whatever way you know.”

Everyone shifted uncomfortably as Mehra reached forward, retrieved the Moon-and-Star from the table, and put it on her finger. None of them would ever look at her the same way again; her status as a 'common person' to them was gone, and she deserved to be exposed after what happened.

“Well,” Farkas shrugged, “we should probably get hammered and tell stories about the guy. Sounds fitting to me.”

Vilkas scowled, grabbed a large bottle of wine, and stood. Without a word, he retreated downstairs to his room.

Sighing wearily, Aela pulled up a chair and motioned to Mehra to sit, just as Tilma came by with a tankard full of ale for both of them. Njada cast a wary glance at Mehra and dashed out of the room with the announcement that she was going to go train in the courtyard.

The remaining Companions sat together and shared stories of Skjor. All Mehra felt she could do was continually drink as they spoke; she barely knew the man, even though he thought she would make an excellent member of the Circle.

It was a bitter thought. This man – this acquaintance – got killed in part because he saw something in her. She suspected that what he saw in her was merely the sliver of the hero she used to be that she kept hidden. Somehow, Skjor knew that she was something more.

At the very least, she could fight to do well for his legacy: the Companions he esteemed so much.

The drinking and carousing continued well on into the night, the conversation varying from fond memories that brought laughs, to the somber realization that talk would be all they had left of Skjor. Somewhere in the middle, a red-eyed Aela excused herself and hurriedly made her escape to her private quarters downstairs.

One by one, each drank, said their piece, and left, until only Athis and Mehra remained in the great hall.

He looked up at her across the table, his cheeks tinged from the alcohol.

“I didn't know him that well,” he admitted. “We never spoke much. I missed an opportunity.”

Athis stood from the table and began to make his way downstairs. When he passed by her seat, Mehra grabbed his arm.

She didn't miss the stares he sent her way, nor the suggestive things he said to her. Mehra was drunk enough to not give a damn about rules against fraternization.

Standing up, she swayed on her feet as she stared Athis in the eyes.

“Is there something you need, Lady Nerevarine?” he asked.

Mehra tilted her head to the side at the title. There was no need for formalities:

Him. Mehra wanted him, and she always got what she wanted.

“I've got a nice double bed back home,” she suggested. “We should test your theory about how many directions two people can fit in it.”

She pinned him against the nearby support pillar, her hand grasping his thick thigh. Gods, he was so muscular.

“No, no,” Athis gasped. “You're going to regret me in the morning. Once the alcohol wears off, you're not going to like what you did.”

But Mehra was determined. She leaned in to her intended partner, only to have him run from the room mumbling, “I can't.”

She stared at the pillar in shock. That had never happened before. Even when she was an Outlander in Morrowind, the immigrant-hating local men couldn't resist her.

Mehra shook her head. Maybe she needed to practice seduction again.

Frustrated, she stumbled her way to the door, through the streets, and back to her home. She fell through the doorway of Breezehome and slammed it shut behind her. Blinking in the dark, Mehra cast a larger light spell than was necessary to light the home.

The sight of her desk caught her attention. She could at least work on staff designs. Unsteady feet took her to the desk, and Mehra plopped down, her chair tipping dangerously to the side as she sat. Grabbing the table to steady herself, she tipped back in the right direction.

With that, Mehra threw herself into her work, desperate to think of something other than the fact that her world and her cover was starting to collapse in on itself.


	15. Chapter 15

A/n: Happy Monday, friends! Just as a warning, this chapter is a bit violent, so the fic earns its rating here. The Thalmor infiltration task was bound to get bloody anyway.

 

* * *

 

_Brother, I do not spread rumors; I create them. -Lucien Lachance_

 

* * *

 

 

4E 201. Skyrim.

 

Mehra inhaled deeply and groaned at the sensation of her feet tingling. Grunting, she stomped them against the floor and winced as they came back to life.

She cracked her eyes open, slowly sat up, and peeled off a sheet of paper that stuck to her face. Mehra held it in front of her eyes and stared at the smudge of ink across the bottom. Though she couldn't read what she wrote – had enough trouble with her penmanship while sober – the drawing looked interesting.

Mehra looked down at her desk to see it littered with staff drawings and diagrams, each one a variation on the Moon-and-Star. She held in a laugh as she looked through them; really, she could give Neloth a staff with her symbol on it. That would be funny. Drunk-Mehra seemed to think so last night.

She sighed and put her head in her hands. Drunk-Mehra also thought it was appropriate to sexually assault Athis last night, too. She must have misjudged him. At any rate, she owed him an apology, and needed to let someone – probably Aela – know that she was going to be gone for a while. Hopefully, they would be fine with just that; the last thing she needed was having anyone know that she was headed to Riverwood to rendezvous with a Blades agent, Solitude or anywhere near the Thalmor Embassy.

Once she stole the Thalmor documents, there was no doubt that there would be an international incident. At the very least, the suspicion of a Dunmer stealing information could keep the Thalmor from expecting the Empire or the Stormcloaks.

But the idea that Morrowind could be blamed put a sour taste in her mouth. Maybe, having a Nord accomplice would make her look like a freelancer, if Erich did indeed show up. She couldn't count on it, though. A promise from a daedra other than Azura was suspect at best.

Well, there was no use worrying about it since she didn't know what would happen. She did her best to prepare; that would have to do.

Standing, Mehra shuffled over to the nearby washbasin and stripped off her tunic. She glanced over to the leather armor that hung from a nearby wooden support as she grabbed a rag. At least drunk-Mehra had there wherewithal to take the armor off before falling asleep in it. Day-after-drinking armor was uncomfortable and smelly at best.

After a quick sponge bath, she tossed her armor back on, packed her bag, made sure the house was in order, and left. Mehra climbed the sloping road up toward the wealthy district, toward Jorrvaskr. She stopped outside the front door and took a deep breath as she prepared herself for the somber mood inside. She hoped that she was still welcome after everything that was said and done the night before.

Well, she faced worse. Mehra pushed the door opened and glanced about the giant hall. A breeze blew in from the training yard, carrying the sounds of training with it and stirring the small tendrils of hair that escaped her bun. In the corner, Tilma swept the floor, her cheerful hum conspicuously absent.

Athis sat alone at the table, staring down into a glass tankard of water as if it held a deep secret.

Well, she'd better have words with him while they didn't have an audience. Sighing, Mehra made her way down the stairs to the large hall table. She stopped next to Athis, pulled out a chair, and straddled it. Nervously, she tipped the chair back and forth as he peered up at her.

“Do uh,” she mumbled, “do you remember anything that happened last night?”

Athis glanced away from her, his face flushing. “I um,” he replied, “I think you had a few too many, Lady Nerevarine. Just wanted to save you some regret.”

Regret? How? Was he a horrible lay? And what was with this 'Lady Nerevarine' business when he'd been following her around like an animal in heat mere days ago? Mehra turned to look at him, but he continued to avoid her gaze.

Oh. He thought she was much too good for him. That was what he meant by saying that she would regret him.

“Well,” she said, “I wanted to apologize. It was very –”

Very what? She only acted off of what hints he'd given her. But maybe she was wrong. Regardless, it was against the rules; she could find a lay elsewhere.

“Unprofessional,” Mehra concluded.

Athis nodded and stared back down at his drink. “I don't think I'm the right–”

“There you are!”

Mehra turned to see Aela leaning in the doorway to the training yard.

“I want to have a talk,” she said. “Walk with me?”

Mehra nodded, stood, and tucked the chair in. Clapping her hand on Athis's shoulder, she gave him a nod. “You're alright, Athis,” she said. “I respect you.”

He returned her nod but still kept his face turned down. Whatever he wanted to say, he couldn't say in front of Aela. She'd have to find out another time.

Mehra nodded at Aela. “Where do you want to go?” she asked.

“Well,” Aela said, “you're going to be leaving town, right?”

She sighed and nodded. She didn't like the idea of leaving the Companions the way they were, but she had a job to do.

“I figured so,” Aela said. “I'll walk you out.”

Silently, they walked through the busy streets of Whiterun, and out of the front gate to stand where the road to Whiterun met the main road. Aela bit her lip and shook her head as she stared out at the wilderness beyond the city.

“The Silver Hand has been scouring for signs of fragments of Wuuthrad,” she said. “Our trip out was to see how well you would do against them. Obviously, you know what you're doing. I don't have to tell you that.”

Mehra nodded quietly as a knot formed in her stomach. Her lies were part of the reason that Skjor was dead. She consciously did much worse before, but this was different.

“Our next secret mission was to go to Treva's Watch,” she continued, “they've got one shard there. It's Southeast of Ivarstead, somewhat out of the way. I can't go there myself; Kodlak would catch on immediately.”

“I can go,” Mehra said. She peered up at Aela to see her smirking.

“That's what I like to hear,” she said. “The Silver Hand will pay for what they did. Are you headed that way?”

Mehra shook her head. “Not that direction, no.”

“Where to, then?”

She shook her head again. “I can't say. It's not that I don't trust you; it's very dangerous to even know.”

Aela sucked in a breath. “Knowing who you are, it sounds like it's important.”

“I hope it is,” Mehra murmured, “I really hope it is.”

“Dragons?”

“Yeah, something to that effect,” she sighed. “I hope I get some answers.”

Aela put her arm across her shoulders and gave her a quick hug. “Wind guide you, Sister,” she said. “Come back in one piece.”

Mehra turned her eyes toward the road that led to Riverwood and shut her eyes.

She felt old.

 

* * *

 

 

Thalmor Embassy. Skyrim.

 

These clothes were hot and itchy. When she put them on in Riverwood, Delphine remarked that she looked at home in high-society clothing. Undercover experience gave her the ability to mask her discomfort, at least; if Delphine couldn't tell that she was an urchin wrapped in silk, then nobody would suspect a thing.

All they had to do was arrange her hair in a way so that it would obscure the scars on the side of her face, at least a little bit.

The carriage lumbered up the steep, snowy slope to the Thalmor Embassy. It was good, she supposed, that the embassy was in one of the coldest, harshest, and most remote areas of Skyrim. It was enough of a journey from Solstheim to make the trek an inconvenience for those who weren't used to travel.

The Empire clearly didn't want much to do with the Thalmor, and all the provinces shared the sentiment.

Mehra drew the shade in the carriage and wiped away the fog on the window with her sleeve. Up ahead, she made out the outline of a manor ensconced in the rocks, with yellow lights glowing in every window. Braziers dotted the tall, stone wall around the manor, interspersed between long, iron spikes. Her carriage drew to a stop in a long line that led up to the embassy.

Erich hadn't appeared, yet. She figured that as her plus one, he'd at least take the carriage ride with her, but she was apparently mistaken. She had to assume that she was doing this alone.

“Dark Elf,” came the carriage driver's muffled voice. “Not letting her get out in the snow here. Too cold for a lady.”

She chuckled to herself and sat back in her seat. She hadn't been referred to as a lady in many years, and she suspected that when she heard it used in reference to herself in Morrowind, it was meant to be derogatory. While she could act the lady well enough, it had always been beneath her to put on airs.

Mehra waited for a while until the carriage lurched forward, making her heart hammer in her chest. This was it; this was her test to see if she still had her old stealth skills.

The carriage lumbered forward, then rolled to a stop. It shifted as the driver hopped down to the ground. Boots crunched on the ice outside, then the door opened, sending a blast of frigid air into the cabin.

“We have arrived, Miss,” the driver said. He offered his hand and helped her step out of the carriage.

Mehra scanned the embassy; guards walked around the walls, while others stood at posts every few feet. In the front of the embassy, a pair of guards stood, searching guests for weapons and checking invitations.

It didn't surprise her in the least. The Thalmor knew they weren't welcome there.

Mehra drew her fur cloak tighter and trudged across the cleared walkway to the entrance. The guards gave her a nod and stepped forward.

“Welcome to the Thalmor Embassy,” the one on the right said. “Your invitation, please, ma'am.”

Mehra drew the invitation out of her coat pocket and handed it to him. While he read it and checked it with their guest list, the other guard stepped forward.

“May I search you, ma'am?”

“Of course, muthsera,” she replied.

The woman stepped forward as Mehra spread her arms out at her sides. Really, the question was a formality; without a search, she wouldn't be allowed in, and would possibly be detained. The guard searched her quickly and thoroughly. When she found clothing, she motioned toward the front door.

“Please, enjoy your evening,” she said.

The other guard turned back from his list and handed the invitation back to Mehra. “Miss Melisi Drolan,” he said. “Welcome. Please head inside for refreshments.”

“I shall,” Mehra replied, “thank you, muthsera.”

Melisi Drolan – a common enough name that she'd remember it, and one that would hide her identity well.

Mehra stepped past the guards, took the short flight of stairs, and headed toward the front door. With the smooth-soled shoes she wore, she was grateful that they made a concentrated effort at removing the ice from the walkway.

Another pair of guards stood at the front door. With a small nod, they opened the door and ushered her into the Embassy.

A gust of warm air greeted her as she stepped over the threshold. The interior of the embassy was stone to match the outside, similar to the buildings of Solitude. The intricately carved archways, marble pillars, and lighter stone accents throughout reminded her somewhat of the Blue Palace. Perhaps, this was a nobility home that Solitude allowed the Thalmor to occupy.

Thalmor banners hung from the walls – black velvet trimmed with gold, and long, thin white silk – a stark contrast to the practical and masculine Nord architecture.

She wondered if they felt at home with the strong, heavy presence of the stone and the dragon motifs carved into the walls. Perhaps they were, if Delphine was correct about them bringing the return of the dragons. More likely, however, they couldn't stand a thing about the humans from the north – their architecture notwithstanding.

Mehra stepped across the short carpet in the entrance and entered the main room. The floor was slick, white, and highly polished there, without a carpet or a sign of warmth in sight, save the fire that burned in the undersized fireplace at the far left of the room. Next to it sat a pot of snowberries that certainly had to be imported specifically for display at the party.

At the far end of the room, a bard played her flute, her expression subdued. Behind her, there was a sitting area of sorts, which an elderly Nord woman in fine dress occupied. The woman looked up from across the room, made eye contact with Mehra, and gave her a knowing smile.

Swallowing, Mehra looked away quickly. What was it about that woman?

She busied herself with eyeing the buffet of food to the right. There were foods of all kinds – even some exotic, out of season foods – the fattiest cuts of meat, and sweet treats dripping with glaze. A plainly dressed Bosmer woman bustled by the buffet with a tray of drinks and headed out into the party to hand them out to guests.

To her right, Malborn stood at the bar, ready to make cocktails for guests who made special requests. She quickly caught his eye and looked away.

Mehra stepped forward in the hopes of mingling, but as she caught pieces of conversation between a nearby Justicar and a Nord elite, she realized it would be easier said than done. The conversation here was more strained than a Telvanni Council meeting. Not only that, but the place was not crowded enough that she'd be able to make an unnoticed escape without some sort of distraction.

With a sigh, Mehra also realized that she was the only gray woman there to begin with. She didn't mind sticking out and was used to it from her time as a child in Daggerfall, but in this case, it wouldn't do to be so different from everyone else.

“Oh, another guest!”

Mehra froze when she saw the woman approaching her and quickly forced a smile.

That woman was at her execution. She was in Helgen. She wore the same black Thalmor robes, heavy rouge, and dark kohl that she had the day that Mehra was destined for the chopping block. And if she didn't find a way to slip out of the party fast, she would certainly be recognized.

“Welcome!” the woman smiled. “I don't believe we have met. I am Elenwen, the Thalmor Ambassador to Skyrim.”

“Melisi Drolan,” she lied.

Yes, the Thalmor Ambassador was with General Tullius at Helgen. She remembered the Stormcloak rebel saying something about her, but at the time, the information didn't seem important.

“Ah, yes. I remember your name from the guest list,” she said.

“I appreciate the welcome,” Mehra replied.

“I could swear I've seen you somewhere before,” the Ambassador sighed. “This is most embarrassing. I usually remember a face and a name so easily, especially an exceptionally tall Dunmer as yourself. I apologize. Please, tell me a bit about yourself.”

“I'm a bit new to the area,” she admitted. Mehra hoped she wasn't too recognizable, but her height and dark skin did have her at a disadvantage. Though she wasn't tall in the least compared to the Nords nor the Altmer she spoke to, she was at least as tall as an average Imperial woman. Maybe, the fact that she didn't look like a malnourished pauper anymore would keep Elenwen from catching on. If she did play off on being from Morrowind, it was likely that nobody would have a clue about her, as nobody bothered to trouble themselves with the Great Houses in the first place.

A pair of arms wrapped around her from the side and Mehra jumped in surprise. She turned to face the person who hugged her.

Erich. He decided to show up after all.

“Oh, there you are, darling!” Mehra gasped.

Erich leaned over and gave her a peck on the cheek.

“Welcome,” Elenwen smiled. “I assume this is your date, Miss Drolan?”

“Yes, muthsera,” she replied.

Erich leaned over and held out his hand. “Erich Heartfire, madam.”

Elenwen took his hand, shook it, and gave him a polite nod. Even in a room full of elite Thalmor agents and guards, Erich towered over them all. Nobody would remember her with him by her side; guests turned to look at him, some whispering behind full glasses of wine.

“I appreciate being permitted to this gathering,” he said. “This gathering of those who create the future, mortal though they may be.”

Elenwen tilted her head to the side. “Mortal,” she mused, “that is an interesting way to put it. Of course, it is true. Mortality is the great equalizer, though some attempt to avoid it.”

“Mortals often think a lot of themselves, I suppose,” Erich replied. “The Tongues thought they were invincible until they were taken down by a Chimeri warlord.”

Mehra nodded in agreement.

“Presumably with great style, might I add,” Erich chuckled. “I like that story. Nobody should ever feel too comfortable with their power.”

“Interesting thought,” Elenwen said. “I believed that the Nords' take on the story was somewhat different.”

Erich shrugged. “For some, maybe,” he said. “A mortal is a mortal, pure and simple; they all have flaws. I suppose I'm a social progressive, of sorts.”

“Well, social progressives are quite welcome here,” Elenwen declared. “This is a coming together of those who wish to impact the future for the good of everyone. Please, enjoy yourselves.”

Mehra quietly thanked the Ambassador and linked arms with Erich. Leaning up, she stood on the tips of her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck. Erich leaned down to let her whisper in his ear.

“Since when did you become so sly?” she asked.

“I've always been like this,” he chuckled. “This time, though, I have magic that prevents you from making me go cross-eyed and silly. Go on and get a drink; get connected with your friend.”

Mehra nodded in agreement and headed toward the bar. Behind it was the only unguarded door in the room; this had to be her way in.

Hopefully Malborn had an idea. She'd find out soon enough. With all the confidence she could muster, Mehra walked up to the bar and gave Malborn a nod.

“What can I get for you?” he asked.

“Something light, please,” she replied. “With the cold and the altitude, I fear intoxication would make me ill.”

“Of course, madam.”

He turned, grabbed a bottle from the shelf, and poured her a glass of a light yellow liquid. Giving her a small bow, Malborn handed her the drink.

Mehra took a sip. Grape juice; perfect.

“Is it to your liking, madam?”

“Very much.”

“I'm glad you made it in,” Malborn mumbled. “Who's that with you? I was not told about anyone else.”

“He's a good friend,” she replied. “Perfect for this kind of job. That's all you need to know.”

Malborn nodded. This information seemed to trouble him, but he couldn't do much about it.

“You have to trust me,” Mehra insisted.

He closed his eyes and sighed. “I have no choice,” Malborn said. “Anyway, you'll have to come up with a distraction for the guards. Once you get them distracted, I'll let you two slip in through the kitchens. Let's hope we all make it out alive tonight.”

“We will,” Mehra said. “I have no doubt about it.”

Malborn sighed again and nodded out toward the party. Clearly, he didn't buy it.

Mehra turned back toward the crowd. With Erich there, they would make it out alive. Even if she found a way to mess everything up, the entire room combined couldn't stand up to a Daedric Lord.

She made her way back over to Erich, who was engaged in a lively conversation with a richly dressed, middle-aged man. When he saw her approach, Erich politely took his leave and convened with her off to the side.

He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and motioned with his other hand toward the party. “Nobody can hear us right now,” he mumbled.

Mehra swallowed. She felt a strange magic in his words and believed him without a doubt.

“We need a distraction,” she said, “so the guards will be busy. Malborn will let us in through the kitchens behind the bar. Let's try to make it look as natural as possible.”

“Oh, crazy is the most natural –”

“Erich,” Mehra sighed, “I really don't want to insult you when I say this, but by natural, I mean it needs to not look noteworthy. Crazy is quite noteworthy, don't you think?”

Erich dropped his arm from her shoulder and tsked. “Darling, you're trying to manipulate me so beautifully that I can't even be angry. I'll take care of your distraction and make us both happy, alright?”

Mehra looked down at the ground and sighed. “I'm sorry,” she said. “That was rude of me. Thank you for considering me in your plan as well.”

“Hell woman,” Erich chuckled, “you didn't hurt my feelings at all. You don't have to be nice about it. But mark my words; when we find an enemy tonight, I will absolutely crush them. You can count on it.”

“Understood. That's part of the job if it comes to that.”

Erich turned to her and gave her a smile. “Shall we mingle, dear? Perhaps a split up will help us find a target.”

Mehra nodded in agreement, though she knew that he would know who could create their distraction from a single glance, and probably already knew the right one to use. It probably wasn't time to spring the trap yet. Either that – and much more disturbingly  this was a fun game to him.

She watched as Erich walked off to chat up a nearby man and exhaled. It was much too late to have regrets about inviting him. Determined to make the best of it, Mehra looked around for someone to talk to as well.

She headed toward the buffet to get something innocuous like fruit. That was when the elderly woman from earlier caught her eye again.

This woman knew something, and their encounter was unavoidable. Piercing brown eyes pinned her to the spot as the old woman walked up to her and spoke in a hushed tone.

“There are words spoken,” the woman said, “and words unspoken. Beware these Thalmor, for they are adept in both languages.”

“Are you as well, madam?”

She smiled. “Unfortunately so,” she replied. “Idgrod Ravencrone, Jarl of Hjaalmarch. Who might you be?”

“Melisi Drolan,” Mehra said.

The Jarl smiled again. She didn't buy her cover in the least “Of course, dear. From Morrowind, I presume?”

“Yes, serjo,” she replied.

“Well,” the Jarl mused, “I believe you may be the most important person here. I'm sure you have some important business to attend to. May wisdom and love light your path.”

With that, she turned away to speak with someone else, leaving a bewildered Mehra behind. Clearly, Jarl Ravencrone had some sort of gift, possibly visions.

Mehra bypassed the food and took a seat at the back to think and observe. If the Jarl of Hjaalmarch had an idea of who she was, maybe she could help with a distraction. At the very least, she wouldn't get in the way and wouldn't point the finger of suspicion at her if the infiltration plans went south.

She sipped her drink and watched as Erich disengaged with a guest and latched on to another. Social events like these came so well to him that it was fascinating to watch. She wasn't as graceful; the Morag Tong didn't require too much undercover work in the form of total immersion from the fact that their killings were legally sanctioned. The Dark Brotherhood, on the other hand, required it from the nature of who they were.

The man Erich spoke to looked familiar. Curious, she strained her ears to listen in to their conversation.

“Name's Erikur,” the man said. “Thane of Solitude. I have a stake in most anything of importance in Solitude.”

“Erich Heartfire. Champion.”

The thane crossed his arms. “I thought you looked a little important. Champion of?”

“The Knights of the White Stallion.”

Mehra watched out of the corner of her eye as Erikur scoffed. “Never heard of it,” he said.

“I mean,” Erich chuckled, “What did you want me to say? Champion of Cyrodiil or something?”

The thane cackled. “Now that, sir, is a bunch of horseshit.”

Erich joined in his laughter as Thane Erikur cast a wary glance at Erich's thick arms.

“Damn, you are huge,” Erikur whistled. “And you're with that tiny elf girl? How does that work out? I hear elf women are insatiable.”

“That is very impolite, sir,” Erich frowned.

Mehra saw the thane hold his hands up in defense as Erich took his leave of the man to find someone else to talk to. She turned her attention elsewhere. Well, there was an 'elf-fetish' human in every crowd, she supposed.

She looked out at the party again to try to see if anyone stood out who could help as a distraction. Everyone looked normal, but given Thane Erikur's attitude, there was no telling what the rest of everyone was like. There was the drunk in the corner, but Erich seemed to be eyeing him as–

A black shadow moved to her left, distracting her from her objective. Mehra turned to see a Thalmor Justicar looming over her.

“It's only a matter of time before your whole rotten empire collapses of its own decay,” he said, “no offense.”

Mehra arched a brow from behind her glass. “You do see the color of my skin, sir?”

He gave her a dry chuckle. “Ondolemar,” he said, “I lead the Justicars. Nords can be quite stubborn. They're slow to change their ways, and we find more heretics every day. I think that perhaps, Morrowind's interests may be better served with the Dominion.”

Oh, please. Was this an attempt to get her to leave the Nord she came with in order to court him? It was hard to tell with Altmer, sometimes. Thalmor in particular seemed to put on more airs than Telvanni retainers competing for an apprenticeship.

“I think Morrowind has had enough of others trying to take her things for themselves,” she shrugged.

“Going alone?” Ondolemar scoffed. “One would think that Morrowind would be pleased with such an offer, scarred as she is.”

Mehra pursed her lips. Perhaps she was correct. Maybe he noticed the scars on her face and was trying to seduce her in a backhanded way – if one could even call his false flattery seduction.

It was better, then, to not give him the satisfaction of letting him know that she was on to him.

“House Telvanni would never agree to it,” she replied. “Especially not the remnants of the Third Era Council. And, believe me, they are around, and their opinion would carry enough weight to put a stop to it. Please, excuse me, sir.”

With that, Mehra stood and walked back to the bar to get a refill on her drink. She'd let Ondolemar puzzle over what she said.

She stood next to the bar and sipped a water that Malborn handed to her. Watching Erich was easy – they were meant to look like a couple anyway – and it made eavesdropping a lot more simple. Mehra listened in as Erich lounged on a bench across from the bar and spoke to an extremely drunk Redguard man.

“ – a guy I know. Real nice fellow, most times. Loves a party, loves getting drunk, meets a lot of beautiful women who always say yes.”

“Yeah?”

“I could introduce you two. He would give you booze.”

“Give me? No questions asked?”

“The only question he asks is how much you like to party, man.”

She caught Erich's eye over the shoulder of the man he spoke to. He gave her a smirk that made her blood run cold.

Listener of the Dark Brotherhood. Erich was in his element. She never really knew this man, but truthfully, he never really knew her either. They both had a closet full of dark secrets.

Mehra glanced to the back of the room and watched as Ondolemar sneered at Thane Erikur as he bragged about his latest war profiteering scheme. She was a murderer at a party of murderers.

“ – make a scene for me?” Erich mumbled. “Think of it as God's work, my friend.” The end of his request trailed off into a purr that sent a cold shiver down her spine. Mehra didn't have to see the drunk's face to know that he was absolutely seduced by the devil.

“No problem,” the man slurred. “I feel like I've known you forever, man, and I'd love to meet your friend. Making a scene's one of my specialties. Now, watch an expert at work.”

He stood and made his way to the back of the room and motioned for the bard to stop playing.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” he shouted, “I would love to offer a toast!”

Erich gave her a hurried nod as the man began to slur through a degrading speech about the host of the party. Quickly, they darted behind the bar as the scowling guards moved forward to grab the man. Malborn opened the door to the kitchen and ushered them inside, then into a narrow hallway. Behind them, Mehra heard the muffled voice of a Khajiit.

"Who is this? Guests are not allowed in the kitchens."

Shit. Caught already. Mehra closed her eyes and sighed.

"She's not feeling well," Malborn said. "And he wants to make sure she's alright. Leave them be."

"This is against the rules."

"Rules, Tsavani?” Malborn scoffed. “I didn't realize that eating moonsugar was permitted. Perhaps I should ask the ambassador –”

"Tch! Get out of here. I saw nothing."

Mehra hid a chuckle behind her hand as the Khajiit shuffled off.

Malborn turned back to them, let out a breath, and pointed to a nearby trunk. "Your gear is in this chest. I'll lock the door behind you. Don't screw this up."

Right. The lockpicks. Kneeling down, she opened the chest and pulled out the small bag of picks. Erich frowned beside her.

“That's all you brought?” he mumbled.

She glanced back at Malborn and nodded. He already risked too much by letting her in to the kitchen; she couldn't have asked him to bring any weapons into the embassy.

“Where are your actual things?” Erich pressed.

“Delphine has them,” she whispered. “Couldn't take it in here.”

He put his hand on her forehead. “What does she look like? Where does she live?”

Mehra opened her mouth to answer, but closed it as a strange sensation overtook her. Wincing, she pulled back and rubbed her head.

“And, look what we have here,” Erich chuckled. He reached into the chest and withdrew a set of armor, her Skyforge steel sword, the Blade of Woe, and her pack.

Mehra stared at her equipment with wide eyes. “How–”

“Let's just say that I'm the one who knows more magic, now,” he smirked.

She nodded and wordlessly stripped the fancy clothes, put the armor on, then fastened her blades to her waist.

“I don't know what the hell kind of 'bottomless chest' magic that was,” Malborn mumbled, “and I'm going to pretend I didn't see it. Probably dark arts or something. Get out of here before someone knows you're missing.”

Mehra nodded and went through the door to the embassy proper with Erich. It closed behind them, the distinct sound of a bolt sliding into place and a mumbled 'I'm so fucked' sounding behind her back.

She peered out into the dim hallway in front of them. There was a doorway of sorts on the left, as well as one on the right. A set of stairs wound up to a room that overlooked the hall. To the left, a pair of voices drifted to her ears – something about new wizards being sent in to thwart dragon attacks.

In the upper room, a floorboard creaked. There was someone up there as well. Mehra nudged Erich and signaled two to the left, and one up high.

He blinked and looked out across the dim area, then nodded in confirmation. Her guess was correct. With a wave of his hand, Erich's party clothes disappeared, and in their place came shrouded black armor with a floor length black cape.

Mehra swallowed. It would make sense that he'd wear assassin's attire for the occasion, but he was a Daedric Lord. Was it really necessary? Was he just trying to have some fun?

Mortal affairs were games to the daedra, after all. And she went into this knowing full well exactly who she asked to help her.

When he slinked out of the shadows, the symbol of the Black Hand was conspicuously absent from the back of his cloak, alleviating her doubts somewhat.

A guard stepped out of the room to the left. Erich crept forward, jumped the man, wrapped an arm around his shoulder, and reached up with his other hand to grab the man's head. A quick jerk of his hand snapped the man's neck and he fell to the floor in a lifeless heap.

The strange noise brought the other guard over to investigate. As soon as he rounded the corner, Erich's boot collided with the man's face, slamming him back against the doorway to the adjacent room with deadly force.

“What's going on down there?!”

Mehra readied a spell on her hand, but Erich charged forward, leaping up to grab a hold of the balcony that overlooked the lower floor. With a secure grip, he brought his legs up and vaulted the rest of the way up to the second floor.

She watched the shadows on the wall in morbid fascination, her spell dying in her hand. The massive cloaked shadow hauled the other up by the collar then slammed it into the wall with a loud crunch, a sickening splatter following quickly after.

Mehra waited in silence until Erich peered over the balcony with a grin.

“All clear,” he said. “Way out's up here.” He motioned with his thumb to the area behind him.

She nodded and glanced over at the guards he took out. The first lay in a heap like a broken doll, his head hanging loosely from his shoulders. A splatter of blood coated the awning where the second guard's head made contact with the hard wood, while a pool of blood gathered under his unrecognizable face.

Gruesome though it was, Mehra wagered that the deaths weren't all that painful. The head and neck trauma surely killed them on impact. It left a bit too much of a scene for her taste, however.

She took the stairs up to the second floor and stopped in her tracks. The sight of a haloed blood splatter on the wall greeted her, a long trail of blood leading her eye down the wall to the final Thalmor who lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. Brain material oozed from a seam across his skull onto the floor.

Mehra massaged her temple when she saw one of the man's eyes dangling from its socket.

“Veloth's sack, Erich,” she hissed. “Can you make it look like a mortal did it at least?”

The mutilated Thalmor corpses with their skulls crushed, necks snapped, and faces caved in would raise too many questions, not to mention this particular fellow.

“I am,” he insisted. “Did it this way when I was Brotherhood, too.”

Erich turned to her and flexed his bicep, his leather glove creaking. “I crush skulls like egg,” he said, offering his best Nord accent.

Mehra chuckled despite herself.

“And hey,” Erich murmured, “if you think that's impressive, you should see what I can do with my thighs.”

She rolled her eyes and motioned to the door. They had to get Elenwen's papers and get out. She wasn't curious in the least what he could do with his powerful thighs.

Nope. Not in the least.

Putting the thought out of her mind, Mehra inched the door open, peered out into the courtyard, and squinted against the cold blast of air that hit her. They had to get to the other side of the compound.

Mehra felt Erich's chin rest on the top of her head as he peered out at the courtyard with her.

“What are you thinking we should do, Erich?” she asked, staring out at the heavily guarded area.

“Bees?”

“Bees?” she repeated. “You said that as if it were a question, Erich.”

He cleared his throat behind her. “I mean, 'bees'!” he said, the last word coming out in a near-shout.

Mehra winced, drew her head back, pushed him back inside, and shut the door. Turning to Erich, she crossed her arms and gave him a glare.

“Look,” he said, “if I do it, they certainly won't suspect the Empire. And if they suspect myself, then I certainly can handle them myself. How about that one, eh?”

“You just want to cause mischief,” Mehra groused. “This has nothing with protecting me or the Empire.”

“Right-o!”

She sighed and leaned against the door. Glancing toward the dead wizard in the corner, she shook her head. “Well, at least you're honest about it.”

“You think I'm being honest, at least,” he replied, giving her a broad grin.

Mehra closed her eyes and massaged her temples. “Kynareth on a crutch,” she swore, “just go out there and 'bees' or something.”

Erich cackled maniacally in triumph, threw the door open, and let it slam shut behind him. She waited in silence as he did – well, whatever it was he was doing. To be honest, she wasn't quite sure that she wanted to know what he as up to.

Minutes passed as she paced in front of the door. Mehra wondered if something distracted him and moved to turn the knob to peer out into the courtyard, but was stopped as Erich threw it open again.

“Done?” she asked, motioning toward the courtyard.

“Quite,” he replied. “Now, close your eyes, and we can be on our way.”

“Close my – ?”

She didn't have time to finish her sentence as Erich pushed her toward the door. Figuring there was a good reason to do so, Mehra closed her eyes and linked arms with him.

“To the left around these stairs,” he said, giving her arm a small tug.

Mehra followed along quietly, listening to the eerie silence around the courtyard. She heard the sound of their boots grinding the gritty sand against the walkways, and the deep breathing of the daedra beside her. The wooded mountain beyond the embassy made no sound, as if it had witnessed some unspeakable horror.

“Just this way,” Erich murmured, “be careful. Now, a step over here, about a foot or so high. Be careful you don't slip.”

Oh, it probably had been an unspeakable horror. This was Sheogorath, after all.

She felt hands on her calves, guiding her feet to step over – she didn't really want to know what she was stepping over. And she didn't want to know whose hands these were. Maybe they were spectral hands, given that Erich still kept his arm looped in hers.

The sound of walking in sand was momentarily replaced with a suctioning squish as she ended on the other side of the obstacle.

“Slip on what, Erich?” she asked.

“Aaand turning to the right now,” he directed, giving her arm a tug.

“Erich.”

Her eyelids fluttered, but she kept them shut. There was presumably a good reason why he told her to keep them closed.

“Please, just trust old Never-There,” he said. “I mean, as much as I'd like to keep you, I feel that everyone's best interests are served with you out here doing your heroing and saving. We'll discuss insanity at a later time.”

She swallowed and kept her mouth shut, even as he told her to stop walking.

“You'll want to wipe your feet,” he said. “Don't, uh, ask about that either.”

Mehra did as she was told.

“And we have arrived! Haven't cleared this next bit out, but it should be quite simple, really,” Erich chuckled. “Should let the lady have a kill or two, after all.” He stepped aside and held the door open for her. Mehra allowed her eyes to open, drew her dagger, and stepped inside the office areas of the Embassy. Erich allowed the door to click shut behind them.

The sight of a large, lavish seating area surrounded by stone archways greeted her. In the center of the room, a golden carpet glistened in the dim light, with highly polished wooden benches and a coffee table on top. The smell of old incense and expensive Summerset teak drifted her way.

In the archway directly across from the seating area, a guard stood, his back turned to her. There was no sign of other guards; the Thalmor didn't seem to think that an intruder would have made it this far.

“But I need that money! I earned it. I have my own expenses, you know–”

“Silence! Do not presume, Gissur. You are most useful, but do not presume. We have other informants who are less... offensive.”

Mehra glanced over at the closed office to her left. She was tempted to sneak in there and kill the pair of them outright, but thought better of it. Documents were her objective. She wasn't there to assassinate the lot of them.

The guard in front of her sighed as he listened to the argument, his breath turning to steam in the cold room. Mehra crept forward with her dagger and listened for the right moment.

“So he has talked! I knew it!”

She jumped the guard, put her hand over his mouth, and stabbed him. As he struggled, Mehra dragged him out of the line of sight of the offices and dropped his body in the corner. Mehra looked to her right and saw an office in the far corner that seemed more lavish than the other offices. Assuming it belonged to Elenwen, she crept forward as quickly and as quietly as possible with Erich close behind her.

Once in the room, Mehra stepped behind the large oak desk to search through the drawers. There was nothing on top of the desk of note that indicated who owned it– a bottle of wine and a potion stood in one corner, while an empty vase stood in the other. Sliding open the letter compartment, Mehra grabbed the first sheet of paper and scanned it.

It was a letter in reply to Elenwen in regards to her request for reinforcements in case of a dragon attack. Interesting. It didn't seem as if the Thalmor knew anything about the dragons, either.

Well, at least she was in the right place. Mehra stuffed the letter back into the compartment and searched the other drawers as quietly as possible. Coming up with nothing, she turned to the chest behind her and pried at the lid with her fingers.

The chest was strangely unlocked. Perhaps, the chest was purely ornamental. The books inside looked plain enough. Mehra grabbed one, unwound the leather cord sealing its covers together, and skimmed through it.

_As long as the civil war proceeds in its current indecisive fashion, we should remain hands-off … obviously Ulfric's death would have dramatically increased the chance of an Imperial victory and thus harmed our overall position in Skyrim._

Mehra pursed her lips. What did they mean by 'asset'? Was Ulfric a sleeper agent? Or, were they manipulating him in some way?

And why wasn't this chest locked?

“No, no. I'll... I'll wait outside.”

“That would probably be best. Now, get out!”

Mehra swore under her breath as the conversation in the other office concluded. Without a word, Erich snatched the book out of her hand, grabbed the others in the chest, and tossed them in the air. She didn't have time to marvel at their disappearance as he snatched a key out of the bottom of the chest and pushed her toward the stairs at the far end of the office.

They scrambled down the stairs just as the interrogator's office door creaked open. There was nothing of note there at the bottom, save a very securely locked door. Erich tossed the key from the chest in his hand, nodded toward the door, and mouthed the word 'dungeon' with a knowing smile.

Footsteps sounded above them, faint on the stone floor. The far office door closed again and the sound of boots trudged down a set of stairs on the opposite end of the floor. A keyring jingled, followed by a groaning door. When the door closed, the door next to Mehra and Erich rattled in response.

The interrogator headed to the dungeon, and they would follow.

“If they'd pay me, I'd have a new damned coat already,” came a low mumble from upstairs.

Mehra nodded up toward the Thalmor informant and Erich shrugged. They'd let him walk.

“Where'd that guard go?” the man wondered. “Ah, well. Probably went for a piss. I'd make up any excuse to fuck off too. Time to get going, I guess.”

Erich motioned toward the dungeon door and Mehra nodded in agreement. They had to get down there and see what other secrets the Thalmor were hiding. While they didn't know anything about the dragons, Mehra wasn't going to leave without having some something worthwhile. The Ulfric dossier was a good start.

The door opened quietly – Erich must have had something to do with that – and the pair slipped into the dungeon unnoticed. They hugged a fading, plaster wall and avoided the railing to the right that overlooked lower area of the dungeon, then turned to the left to wind down a pair of rough, wooden stairs to the stone floor.

The smell of blood hit her at the bottom. They were clearly busy down here.

Taking up a post on the left side of the doorframe, Mehra peered out into the main torture room. To the far right of the room, a Justicar sat at a desk, quill and paper ready for a confession. Judging by the sounds that came from the cell in front of him, they were starting their interrogation again.

Mehra motioned toward the man at the desk with her dagger and nodded. Erich gave her a quick nod of acknowledgment. She was going to take the scribe out; he'd get the brute in the cell.

“But what is his name?” the interrogator pressed.

“I don't know,” a man in the cell panted, “I don't know everything. There's an old man and he lives in Riften. I've seen him down in the Ratway but I don't know if he lives there or not. He could be this Esbern you're looking for but I don't know.”

“And his name is?”

Mehra crept forward with her dagger ready to strike. The interrogator was so caught up in his investigation that he didn't notice her behind him, nor the gigantic black shadow that was Erich. She heard enough; they wanted to find someone named Esbern, and they suspected that he was this old man in Riften living in the Ratway. If he was important enough to her interests, she'd seek him out herself.

She reached the Thalmor in the chair. Without hesitation, Mehra yanked him back in his chair, stabbed him between the ribs, and pitched him onto the floor. He struggled on the ground with a wheeze until she silenced him for good.

Once certain that he was dead, Mehra stood and turned toward the interrogator's desk. She began to read the interrogation log and confirmed what she heard: there was an old man in Riften, possibly in the Ratway. The Thalmor were looking for a man named Esbern.

“Now it's my turn to torture someone,” Erich chuckled, “Isn't it, dear?”

Mehra waved her hand at him and continued to read the log. She needed more information. Frowning, she rifled through the desk for information, but found nothing of note. She then turned her attention to the nearby chest. Inside was a small book, similar to the ones in the Ambassador's office. Excited, Mehra grabbed it, unwound the leather cord from the cover, and opened it up to read the first few lines.

“There you are, Esbern,” she mumbled. He appeared to be an associate of Delphine's, and in fact, was a Blades agent well versed in Dragon lore. If anyone knew what was going on, it was sure to be–

A scream came from the cell and carried out into the dungeon, along with the sound of something being dragged.

Mehra slapped the book shut, frowned, and looked up.

“Erich!” she called.

Another scream. She didn't want to know what he was doing.

“What?!” he shouted. “Can't ya' see I'm a little busy here? You're really making my teeth itch, woman. Or, is it man? Or both? Or neither? Hm. Conundrum, that.”

That voice didn't sound a thing like Erich. He was losing it. Mehra swallowed and stared at the dossier in her hand. She'd come too far to lose everything.

“There's a Blades Agent in danger, Champion,” she said.

Mehra heard a sickening crunch as Erich – Sheogorath, now – disposed of his mortal prey. He came back into the room and stared at her strangely. Finally, after a moment of thought, he gave her a nod.

“My oath for the Emperor,” Erich said. “How can I help?”

She handed the dossier to him, hoping desperately that she wouldn't regret it.

“Erm,” a voice from inside the cell called, “a little help in here, maybe? Did Mercer Frey send you? Or Brynjolf?”

Mehra narrowed her eyes. Wasn't Brynjolf the man who tried to get her to frame Brand-Shei in Riften?

He sighed. “Guess not. Well, would you mind letting a fellow out then, since you don't like these guys? I might be able to to tell you about where to find that guy.”

Without delay, Erich stepped into the cell. Mehra heard the loosening of chains and quickly, Erich returned with the freed man in tow.

He was a short, pale man – Breton – with blond hair that lay matted to his face and neck in dirty, bloodied clumps. Bruises covered his naked torso and he weaved in place as he stood before them.

“Talk,” Erich ordered. He pushed the man into the ex-interrogator's chair and made a show of casting a restoration spell on the thief; Mehra knew that his daedric powers could heal flesh with the snap of a finger.

“Don't know if he's your Esbern,” the man said. “That's my disclaimer first of all. But there is an old man living in the Ratway, and he is incredibly paranoid and keeps to himself. You have to go through our Cistern to get to him, and that's why he hasn't been found yet.”

“I have the feeling it is him,” Erich replied. “And I'm rarely wrong about things.” He looked up and gave Mehra a wink.

“Well, the name's Etienne,” the man said. “Thieves' Guild. If you're planning to let me escape here like I think you are, I'll put in a word for them to let you in to get your friend out of there. Sound like a plan?”

Mehra nodded. “Appreciated. I'll be the one to go, I suppose. You'll let me in?”

Erich finished healing him and allowed him to stand. Etienne thanked him, rolled his shoulder in his socket, and nodded. “Yeah,” he replied. “You can talk to Brynjolf, Vekel, or Dirge, and tell them exactly where you saw me. There's no way they won't believe you.”

He jogged over to the corner where the Thalmor piled their victims' belongings. Picking out the items of warm clothing that were his – and a few that weren't his, Mehra suspected – Etienne motioned toward a trap door in the corner covered with a thin layer of straw.

"Come this way," he said. "I've seen them use this to get rid of the bodies. It must lead somewhere."

“You damned traitor! We're going to make you spill every last bit of information you've got on those two before we waste you!”

Etienne hissed a quiet curse and darted toward the door. Wildly, he motioned for them to follow. Mehra shook her head and glanced up at the upper level of the dungeon. They caught Malborn.

“Gotta save him,” she whispered. “I'll catch up with you later in Riften.”

"Your funeral," the man shrugged. He disappeared into the trapdoor, a cloud of putrid air curling up from the cave below.

Mehra turned her eyes back to the upper level. They must have come down the other set of stairs that the interrogator used.

“I don't know anything about them,” Malborn insisted. “Someone gave me some bad advice to let them in. I didn't think they'd – they'd – Gods, I don't know what happened to those people.”

She shook her head as she darted over to the stairs that led up to the interrogator's office. Did he see the guards in the embassy, or the courtyard?

“Looks like we don't have to wait to kill you, then,” a guard chuckled.

“No! Wait!”

Mehra exchanged a nod with Erich. Together, they charged up the stairs and rammed into the guards who held Malborn captive. Mehra stabbed into the Altmer in front of her with all her might, her Skyforge steel sword cutting through the Thalmor's armor as if it were bandit's hide. Tossing the body aside, she grabbed Malborn by the shoulders.

He shook in fear, his eyes brimming with tears.

“Malborn, it's me,” she said. “You're safe.”

"Great, now the Thalmor are going to hunt me for the rest of my life," he said. "I can't believe that I let Delphine talk me into this." He swayed on his feet and Mehra leaned forward to steady him.

Erich placed his hand on Malborn's back and watched as he collapsed in a heap into his arms.

"Spell?" Mehra asked.

Erich nodded. "Non-sneaky liability," he said. “Near a panic attack, too. Trust me; I know those.” He shouldered Malborn and nodded toward the trapdoor the Thieves' Guild man disappeared into.

Mehra bounded down the stairs, opened the door, and motioned for Erich to go first. Ignoring the stink of death and decay, Mehra waited for him to jump down, then followed after, opting to take the ladder instead.

Her boots touched sandy gravel at the bottom of the ladder. Turning, she inched forward to peer over the rocky outcropping on which they stood.

It opened up below into a pit of half-chewed limbs and bones strewn about the base of the cave. A frost troll stood in the center, sniffing the air.

Erich approached the edge, peered down, and sighed.

“Don't attack us,” he said.

The troll jerked its head in his direction and blinked. Erich hopped over the edge of the rock then turned back to Mehra.

“You coming down?” he asked.

She watched as the troll slowly backed away from the daedra in the middle of his lair. Satisfied that they weren't going to be attacked, Mehra vaulted over the edge.

Together, they made their way to the far end of the cave and squeezed through a gap in the rock to end up outside.

They were at the bottom of the hill that the Embassy occupied. Mehra peered up at the lit building and smirked. The entire place was on lockdown; what was left of the guards were posted all around the Embassy. They did a damned fine job, all things considered.

A larger formation of assorted soldiers and wizards stood out front of the Embassy. No doubt, they were making preparations to search the forest.

“Hope that thief made it out,” Mehra murmured. “Woods will be crawling with Thalmor any minute now.”

Erich glanced up at the Embassy and shrugged. “He's long gone with the horse he stole.”

He placed Malborn on a nearby rock, took off his cape, and wrapped it around the sleeping Bosmer.

“Where do we take him?” Erich asked.

Mehra frowned and crossed her arms. Wherever it was, it had to be somewhere the Thalmor couldn't easily go.

“Let's take him to Braidwood Inn,” she said. “It's in Kynesgrove. Middle of nowhere, Stormcloak country.”

He nodded, knelt down, and picked Malborn up. Securing him to his hip, Erich reached out with his free hand and pointed a glowing finger toward the woods. Light followed his finger as he traced a square in the air; when the shape was complete, a portal took form.

Mehra stared at the other end of the portal and blinked in disbelief. Through it lay the road to Kynesgrove.

Erich stood in front of the softly glowing portal motioned for her to step through.

Mehra eyed it and shrugged. It looked as safe and stable – if not moreso – than any guild or temple recall she saw. She stepped through to the other side, Erich following close behind and sealing it behind them.

The Thalmor would take a long time to catch up to Malborn, if they ever did.

They passed the journey in silence, until the pale lights of Kynesgrove shone through the trees ahead.

“Hey man, we're here,” Erich said. He loosened his grip on Malborn and allowed him to slide to his feet.

Malborn blinked from underneath the oversized cape. “Where? I can't be safe.”

"You have no idea how safe you are right now," Erich laughed, clapping him on the back.

He led him up the path toward Braidwood inn. All the while, his hand stayed on the woozy Bosmer's back to steady him.

Mehra stayed back a few paces and watched. It was said that Sheogorath tested the minds of mortals for weakness; before the Tribunal came along, he was both feared and revered by the Chimer.

“– slept the whole way,” Erich insisted. “We're in Kynesgrove now. They won't think to find you here while you make your escape plans.”

Why was he giving this mortal a break?

They stopped in front of the inn. Malborn mumbled something off to the side and handed the cape back to Erich, who shook his head.

“No,” he murmured, “you did a very good thing tonight. Your family and ancestors would be proud.”

Malborn swallowed thickly, but said nothing. With a final nod, he opened the door to the inn and stepped inside.

When the door closed, Erich's shoulders slumped. He gathered his cape, put it back on, and trudged down the inn's steps to join Mehra back on the road.

“Tragic fellow,” he said. He didn't offer anything more than that, but given what Delphine told her, Mehra wasn't sure she wanted to know the details. Malborn's family was dead. The Thalmor made sure of that years ago.

Mehra looped her arm around his and pointed up at the hill overlooking the town.

“Let me show you what's going on,” she said. “There's a dragon burial mound up the hill here. The black dragon from Helgen resurrected the one that was buried here.”

Together, they climbed the hill. If Erich saw what happened, maybe he would know what was going on.

At the very least, he'd understand the severity of the dragon problem.

 

* * *

 

 

Yes. Dragons were flying around the sky, swooping down, and torching people. And from what the earth told him – the dragon bones were no help – the black dragon from the past was the source of all the trouble.

“The past”: he wasn't quite sure what to make of that one. Technically, they were all from the past, but this dragon was quite literally a time-traveler. It made sense, after all; Akatosh was associated with time, and he was a dragon-of-sorts.

So, the matter was serious. That was why he went with her to that party, yes? To be serious.

Erich glanced over at Mehra and watched as she stared up at the stars, a grave look on her face.

He wasn't about to tell her what he did with Sanguine out front of Windhelm. She'd disapprove of his method of disposal, and the last thing he wanted was strife between them.

A Daedra Lord censoring himself in front of a mortal to prevent said mortal's displeasure. Odd, that.

Well, at least she wasn't an average mortal. She'd been through the fire – literally; Red Mountain was hot – and came out of it with an exciting half-cured disease that made her impervious to age and other disease.

Ah, the things – people, really – he would have done had he been in her position as a mortal.

Erich shook his head. Now wasn't the time to think about that. It was time to be serious. The dossiers they stole from the Embassy gave them enough information to know that Esbern in Riften was her key to figuring out who the black dragon was.

Alduin. World-Eater. Sent forward in time – or to twelve o' clock, depending on who you were – was there to devour the souls of the living and the dead. And taste didn't matter to him; he'd eat anything with a soul. He was a living garbage dump, really.

He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. He was a filthy liar, sending her off to Riften and just shrugging about the whole thing, but as it was, he was too involved.

They needed to start seeing other people.

Erich shoved his hand into the pocket of his pants. It was time to give her a trinket so she could summon him if she ended up in danger. Did Azura say that she would do that? He doubted so!

Where was that damnable–

The tines of the fork pricked his fingers and he jerked back in surprise.

Mehra turned to him and gave him an odd look. “You alright, Erich?”

“Just ah, getting something here,” he mumbled. “I promise I'm not touching myself.”

She turned away with a smirk, giving him the distinct impression that if he were, she certainly wouldn't have minded. He took the fork out of his pocket and handed it to her.

Mehra turned the benign looking artifact in her hands and studied it carefully. With her background, surely she knew that it was more than an ordinary fork.

“What's this?” she asked.

“I want to fork you,” he chuckled, admiring the goosebumps on her arm from holding it.

A brief, sane moment gifted itself to him – a vision of exactly what could happen if he decided to indeed lie with her. The sight was horrifying; he was much too strong to bed a mortal, and if he did, it was certain that he'd rend her limbs from her body, and his long fangs would crush the back of her neck.

Nauseated, Erich shook his head. “A poor joke,” he mumbled, “I apologize. It can't happen, dear. I'm much too strong for a mortal. But keep that on you, and call on me if you end up in trouble. That's the Fork of Horripilation, and it's a very special little artifact of mine.”

“It's been over two hundred years since I had a good lay,” Mehra sighed. “Just throwing that out there.”

Wow. That was a lot to bottle up. Erich tugged on his collar and cleared his throat. Wow indeed.

“I mean,” he said, “If you want to die, then sure. I think Sanguine is probably the only one who could do it gently to a mortal. I'm insane, remember?”

Mehra laughed. “I can't forget,” she said. “By the way, I did have someone in my sights who seemed quite interested, but after finding out who I am, it gave him cold feet. Ran out of the room when I tried to kiss him, even.”

Erich wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “Fellow's got no taste, then. You're lovely.”

He regretted not pursuing her more strongly when he was a mortal, but there wasn't much that he could do about it now.

“Before everything happened,” she murmured, “before the prophecy and the legends, when I got sent to Morrowind, I thought that I'd get a bit of that wildness out of my system then get married eventually. Guess that was never in the cards for either of us, was it?”

“Married to duty,” Erich said. “Both of us. Maybe, you'll fall in love with someone, someday.”

Mehra turned to him, the sadness on her face immeasurable. “I did once. I messed it up by shouting.”

Erich chuckled. “Well, now you'll save the world by shouting, I suppose.”

She laughed and slapped him on the arm, her melancholic mood disappearing instantly. Mehra was always gracious with his horrible attempts at humor, and allowed him to avoid anything she said that resembled seriousness.

She said it herself; Mehra fell in love with him, all those years ago. He absolutely knew that he loved her then as well.

Then. At nine; it was the twelfth hour now.

“I'm glad you're there for me,” she admitted. “To be my friend and help me through all of this. It's difficult, having this much pressure to do everything right. And after getting these papers tonight and reading them, I've at least got a lead. This Esbern guy has to know what's going on.”

Erich stopped listening after the word 'friend'. It was difficult to be friends when he wanted to grab her and kiss the hell out of her, but he was two hundred years too late for any of that.

“I have to part ways now, though,” she sighed. “I can't ask you to do something with me again like this. I'm short-changing myself.”

That stung more than he cared to admit, but he was thinking the same thing.

Mehra waved the fork in the air then stuffed it in her bag. “But, thanks for this. I know that if I'm in real trouble, you'll be there. I know I'm not alone.”

“Well,” he shrugged, “I know what it's like. You don't answer to me just because you have my artifact. Just call me if you're about to die or something.”

She laughed. He liked that sound. It was the laugh of a person who endured more than they ought to. The fact that she created joy instead of sorrow when she could easily choose the latter – well, it was the definition of bliss.

She reminded him of the woman he – not him, the other him; previous him – strung into a lute.

“Erich.”

Mm. She had been a beauty, too.

“Erich, are you thinking about something?”

“You don't want to know,” he replied.

She stared into his eyes, her expression suddenly sad. “No, I suppose I don't,” she said. “You dropped form.”

Sheogorath blinked and looked down at his hands to see that they were clawed once again. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Mehra yawn and hunch over.

“Going to go to the inn?” he asked.

Mehra shook her head. “Should get a head start on Riften,” she said.

He pursed his lips. No, he wouldn't allow her to do that.

“How about you take a few minutes?” Erich suggested. “Get a little bit of sleep.” He placed his hand on her back and held in a smirk when her eyelids drooped. His power was so great that his mere words could lull her – a woman who killed supposed 'gods' before.

“Oh,” Mehra sighed, “I suppose I can.”

He smiled and put his arm around her shoulder, bringing his cape to wrap around her body. Her head fell against his side as her eyes slid shut.

“So warm,” she mumbled. “What's in this cape?”

“Fires of hell.”

“Mm?”

“Nothing, dear. Get some sleep.”

She moved her head in what he felt to be a nod, then fell asleep against his side. He stayed there with her unmoving for hours; even as the sun began to rise over the horizon, he made no move to wake her.

She'd awaken when she needed to. It was as simple as that.

A few minutes later, Mehra stirred beside him, jerking awake when she realized that it was now daytime. He watched as she stood in a panic, checked her bag, and mumbled to herself about running behind.

“Well, you can't get in there without the thief being there first,” he said. “Unless, you want to join their guild, that is.”

Mehra sighed and swung her pack over her back. “You're right,” she replied, “and I probably needed to sleep. But I do have to get going now.”

She stepped over, drew him in for a hasty hug, then pulled away, her body tense. Before he could offer her any parting words, she turned to head down the road. Mehra made it to the edge of the burial ground before turning back to him, her eyes sad again.

No, no sadness. They weren't going to part like this. Erich thought back to their conversation from the night before and said the first thing that came to his mind:

“Hey. Go get fucked.”

Mehra rolled her eyes and waved goodbye to him.

She'd have no trouble in Riften, and she'd certainly have no trouble doing anything else she wanted to do.


	16. Chapter 16

_You can't believe how easy it is. You just have to go... a little crazy. And then, suddenly, it all makes sense, and everything you do turns to gold._

 

* * *

 

 

4E 201. Riften.

 

Being anonymous here was worlds apart from her reputation in Whiterun. Even if she did say that she was one of the Companions, it likely wouldn't make a bit of difference around here. Riften didn't put stock in organizations of honor, warriors, or magic. Money was the language of the city, from beggars haggling to get more money from those who pitied them, to the infamous Black Briars who ran the city.

The politics here were dirtier than Balmora, and it smelled equally as terrible from the polluted waterway around the area. They'd run a meadery and a fishery with the same water, taint be damned.

It didn't surprise her when a buxom, corseted Nord woman approached her with a hungry look in her eye.

“Hello there,” she said, a smile playing on her lips. An amulet of Dibella hung from her neck, and the cloying scent of expensive Telvanni bug musk – probably a gift from a customer or suitor – drifted toward her.

Mehra opened her mouth to tell the woman she wasn't interested, but stopped when she said her next piece:

“You know Brand-Shei?”

“I do,” she replied. “Is there a problem?”

The woman smiled broadly, her hand reaching down to play with the pendant on her neck.

“I'm Haelga,” she said. “Owner of the Bunkhouse. Brand-Shei boards at my place. I thought you looked familiar. Are you – close to him?”

“We're associates,” Mehra shrugged. “He's a solid guy.”

“Oh, I imagine so. I'll admit that I'm a bit jealous,” she said. “You had him with you almost all night.”

“No, we weren't –”

“Oh honey,” Haelga chuckled, “I'm the last person you should worry about hiding this kind of thing from.”

“But –”

“Come on,” the woman sighed, “look, I've been with enough mer to know how sexual you are, especially Dunmer.”

“Excuse me?” Mehra put her hands on her hips. This again. She didn't care if it came from a woman; it wasn't necessarily true, and too many humans harassed mer over it.

“I don't know how but your orgasms last so much longer,” Haelga said. “That's one thing I've learned during worship.”

Mehra froze, an indignant comeback dying on her lips.

“I'm sorry,” the woman mumbled, “I thought you practiced. It appears I was mistaken. If you'd like instruction, though, I wouldn't mind sharing some wisdom.”

“No, it's fine,” Mehra replied, “what's this about orgasms though?”

“Dunmer men just,” she sighed, “they go as long as a human woman, at least in my experience.”

Mehra nodded, faking an indication that she understood what the woman was talking about. Nearly two centuries without made her forget the sensation of sex, much less the differences between man and mer – if there truly were any.

“So, I'll admit I was curious about him,” Haelga said. “Especially since he hasn't seemed interested. I wondered if you two were seeing each other.”

Mehra sighed and stared down at the planks beneath her feet. “We're not,” she replied, “but he doesn't seem like a hookup kind of guy.”

“Oh, I'll be the judge of that,” Haelga laughed. “Thanks for letting me know though. By the way; the bunkhouse is for working men only. If you want to stay somewhere, I suggest the Bee and Barb.”

With that, the Nord sauntered off. Mehra had no intention of even asking to stay at her bunkhouse, but resisted the urge to give her a comeback. Really, she was better off just walking away.

She had business to do here.

Mehra turned on her heel and lost herself in the crowd. She had to find someone from the Thieves' Guild – easier said than done; the place was crawling with them, but they could be anyone – and let them know who she was. With any luck, they'd let her in to their Ratway to get Esbern out.

She caught sight of a familiar face out of the corner of her eye and inwardly groaned. What was that guy's name? Brynjolf?

He saw her as well and sent a smirk her way. Well, if she was to get in to the Ratway, this could be her ticket. Swallowing her distaste, Mehra gave him a nod and walked up to him.

Brynjolf leaned against the side of a building, cutting off slices of an apple with a knife and eating them. As she drew closer, he cut off another slice and offered it to her. Mehra shook her head and he shrugged before eating the slice himself.

"Well, we meet again, Lass," he said. “Now, I know we got off on the wrong foot last time, so I'm going to offer you some advice; that woman you were talking to was the town whore. Don't hang around her unless you want to get a reputation.”

“Found that one out pretty quickly,” Mehra drawled.

He pushed strings of red hair away from his face and tucked them behind his ear. Briefly, she wondered if Erich's hair had been this color before his accident. He didn't have the freckles that Brynjolf had, however.

“For what it's worth,” Brynjolf said, “I apologize for our first meeting. It wasn't meant as a slight to your ah – feminine virtue.”

“Noted.”

“You slink like a cat,” he continued. “I know a sneak when I see one. So, if you're not a thief, you're what? An assassin?”

“I'm not a thief, if that's what you're implying,” Mehra smirked.

Brynjolf put his hands up, a sheepish look on his face. “I hope you don't have any ideas about taking me out, lass.”

“Do you have a writ of assassination out on you?” she deadpanned.

“No?” he guessed, his face turning red. “I swear I've heard that phrase before, though. You're not, uh, Brotherhood, are you?”

“No,” Mehra frowned. “Absolutely not.”

“Alright,” Brynjolf sighed. “Then that's good, then. You, uh, like apples?” He motioned to her with the blade of his knife, his question perfectly clear.

“Sometimes,” she shrugged. “The ones from around here aren't that good, I've found.”

He choked on his apple for a second, the realization that she did indeed assassinate someone in the city making him sober completely. Brynjolf glanced down at his snack in distaste, then tossed it over the nearby railing into the canal.

“So, why have you come to me, lass?”

Mehra crossed her arms. “Business proposition,” she said. “I'll trade you a friend for a friend. Your guy Etienne was at the Thalmor Embassy. I've got to get the old man that's in the Ratway out of there. You know the one I'm talking about."

He swore and looked around to see if anyone overheard. “You're a straight-talker, that's for sure. Alright; I want no trouble from you if I take you in.”

“I'll be right behind you,” she replied. “Promise.”

Brynjolf swore again and motioned for her to follow, grumbling about that being his exact worry. He led her across the upper level of the city, then down to the lower docks. Finally, he stopped in front of a door in the far corner of the city. The smell was more putrid down here than she'd experienced elsewhere in Riften.

“Well, here's what we're going to do,” he said. “You go in here, and I'll go to our secret entrance. I'll meet you up at the Cistern and let you in. Shouldn't be a problem for a skilled assassin, eh?”

Mehra frowned. “Then take me directly.”

“Look,” Brynjolf sighed, “we've been on some hard times lately. I can't let a non-member see our secret entrance. There's been terrible luck. And while I know you' don't care for us, you certainly have to understand hard times, eh, Morag Tong?”

Excellent guess. While she identified with House Telvanni much more readily, he was correct. Her frown softened. “Understood, thief. They beat seven shades of shit out of your guy Etienne. Took a very powerful spell to heal him.”

“No, don't manipulate me,” Brynjolf laughed. “You're in, right? There isn't much to fight in there. A few skeevers, a few madmen. Thugs who didn't make it in on account that they were a bit too murder-happy.”

“Sounds like you want me to clear out the back route,” Mehra drawled.

He laughed again and crossed his arms. “Now, we're not killers, lass.” Brynjolf gave her a wink and held the door open for her.

Mehra stepped inside and fought the urge to gag. How in the world did they live down in the sewer, of all places?

The door closed behind her. Closing her eyes, Mehra forced herself to focus. She drew her sword and readied her other hand for a spell. Though Brynjolf said that she wouldn't have trouble down here, she wasn't about to underestimate it.

Mehra wound her way through the Ratway, each passing minute grating on her nerves. Though the creatures and hostile people she encountered were no problem, the place was a damned maze. She encountered so many dead ends, looping passageways, and sheer drops that she wondered if this was some sort of game to them.

She trudged up to a large, wooden door and scowled. They probably put new recruits in here to test their skills. If they found their way, they were in; if they didn't, well –

Mehra eyed a skeleton in the corner of the room and sighed. That could be anyone, really.

She put her hand on the doorknob. With it as bad as it was here, she'd have to get new armor; her current set was covered in shit and gods-knew what else.

“Another dead end, I'm sure,” she grumbled.

Mehra pushed the door open, her shoulders slumping in relief. In front of her was a large cistern, with planks connecting platforms. In the far corner was a bar, and up closer, there appeared to be a shop of sorts. The place looked ratty and worn-down, but it was certainly the Thieves' Guild hideout.

“Who goes there?!”

Mehra swore and readied a ward as a man leaped out from the shadows. He stalked closer to her, an arrow pointed straight at her heart.

“Brynjolf told me to come here,” she explained. “I'm just passing through.”

He narrowed his red eyes at her and kept the tension tight on his bow. “Nobody just passes through, sera.”

“Easy, Ravyn!”

Mehra didn't dare break eye contact with the man in front of her, even as Brynjolf jogged up to them.

“Need a reason,” Ravyn groused. “Who is this?”

“She saved Etienne from the Thalmor, for starters,” he replied. “Put the arrow down, man!”

Sighing, he did as he was told.

“Thought you'd know her to be honest,” Brynjolf said. “She says she's an assassin.”

Ravyn sized her up, his arms crossed in front of his chest. “You're not Tong, so that doesn't leave too many options.”

Oh, hell. It would be just her luck to run into someone who was current with the Morag Tong. But, why was he here?

“He says I'm an assassin,” Mehra groused, pointing to Brynjolf.

Brynjolf frowned and motioned to Ravyn. Slowly, the assassin drew the blade at his side.

“Etienne!” he shouted. “Come here! Is this the lass who saved you, or what?”

She glanced over to the crowd at the bar and saw the man whose life she saved. If he denied her, then what?

There were a dozen or so here – most probably had some archery skills. If things turned sour, she'd likely have half a dozen arrows in her chest before she killed the two in front of her.

"Oh, stop," Etienne called. "She saved my life. She's good. Don't worry about it."

Mehra pursed her lips as the assassin backed off.

“Nerevarine's bollocks!” Ravyn shouted. “Why didn't you say anything earlier, idiot?”

Her what?

She fought the urge to laugh out loud, as well as the urge to contradict him to say that the Nerevarine was a woman. They already didn't like her.

Brynjolf turned to Ravyn and gave him a nod. “She's here to get that old coot out of the Warrens,” he explained. “A friend for a friend and all that. Apparently he's attracting Thalmor attention so we need to get him out anyway. Let's escort the lass to the correct door, shall we?”

“Worried I'll steal something?” Mehra drawled. She walked between the pair as they led her across the wooden platform that led to the main area of the cistern.

Brynjolf snorted. “You're a sass,” he laughed. “But of course, if you want to pick Ravyn's pockets, you can do it roughly. He's wound pretty tight.”

“Shut it, Nord,” the assassin hissed.

Mehra kept her mouth shut and followed them until they stopped in front of another door.

“He's somewhere in here,” Brynjolf said. “We leave care packages outside the door, and they always disappear. We're on lean times, but we can't let an old beggar starve.”

“Where exactly is 'in here'?” Mehra asked.

“Around,” he frowned. “Figure it out 'assassin'.” With that, he leaned in, opened the door, and motioned toward the sewer beyond.

Mehra stepped in with an eye to her back, just in case one of them had an idea to come after her. Thankfully, they didn't, and the door closed behind her.

Well, now was as good of a time as any to check her skills in magic. She didn't have all day to search and a detect life spell could come in handy if she could cast one powerful enough.

Mehra readied the spell between her palms, watching as the appropriate blue light took form. When she felt – hoped, really – that it was ready, she released the spell.

Blinking, she swore as she stared out at the array of blue life-light that was brought to her attention. The spell was powerful – too powerful, really. Mehra saw everything from the skeevers in the next room, slaughterfish in the water many tunnels down, to the hordes of roaches crawling the walls.

At least everything looked a little nicer, she supposed.

Mehra took the stairs down into the warrens, watching as tiny blue lights scattered away from her feet. She peered out into the darkness and squinted her eyes.

There, a few rooms away, was the shape of a person sitting. Mehra let out a sigh. Perhaps, this wouldn't be the ordeal that the Ratway had been.

Determined to get it over with, Mehra wound her way through the warrens, drawing closer to the seated figure. Eventually, she came across a sturdy door with a metal sliding compartment to use to peek out into the sewer. Whoever was living beyond the door was paranoid, at least.

Biting her lip, Mehra reached out and knocked on the door.

"Go away!"

Well, the voice sounded elderly.

"Esbern?” she called, “open the door. I'm a friend."

There was a long pause. The seated figure stood and began to pace the room.

"What? No, that's not me. I'm not Esbern. I don't know what you're talking about."

Mehra crossed her arms. It definitely was Esbern; that was one of the worst lies she ever heard. How in the world was she going to get him to come out? He was paranoid – justifiably so.

"Delphine needs your help," she replied. "I'm here to get you out and take you to her. She doesn't know I'm here; the Thalmor might know your location and could be here any second. I'm the Dragonborn you've been looking for."

Well, that was everything. If he didn't believe that, then he wouldn't open the door for anything. Maybe she could shout the door down.

An unbidden image came to her mind – smoke everywhere, screaming children. The northern barbarian walked toward their city, unhurried. With a frightening shout, he blew the city gates apart. But Mehra was there with her spear, ready to take down the human beasts. Voryn, the most trusted general, led a flanking maneuver that surely would crush –

"Oh," Esbern mumbled, interrupting the strange vision. "Well, let me get this door open."

Mehra closed her eyes and took a deep breath. At least he was willing to talk to her. She heard the sound of a latch sliding back and prepared for the door to open, but stopped as she heard another one move.

Chains rattled on the other side of the door. A bolt slid back; another latch moved: How many locks did this man have on his door?

She turned around to see if anyone followed her into the sewer. Really, she didn't know how much the Thalmor knew about this; she took all information on Esbern, as well as the interrogation logs. It was equally likely that they knew to look in Riften as the possibility that they had no clue.

Mehra turned back to the door and listened as Esbern continued to unlock it. Clearly, he expected his cover to be blown at some point.

If the Thalmor knew about Etienne's lead, they'd be hot on her heels. Mehra turned back to look out at the sewer again, breathing a small sigh of relief when she saw no other humanoid forms with her spell.

Finally, the heavy wooden door creaked open, the sound accompanied by the rattling of chains.

“Come in,” Esbern said. He hid behind the door.

Determined to prove that she was harmless, Mehra stepped into the room and held her hands up. She didn't have time to look around as the door closed behind her with a clatter. Offhand, she counted at least a dozen heavy locks, bolts, and chains hanging from the back of the door.

Esbern gave her a wary look as he sized her up. He was a tall, slim man – clearly in good form despite his advanced age. Blue-gray eyes peered out from underneath gray brows. He stroked his silver beard as he stared at her in earnest.

"So, Delphine keeps up the fight,” he mused. “I told her it was hopeless years ago"

“Well, the Empire isn't doing well,” Mehra replied. “And the Blades are in a tough spot. Seems hopeless.”

Esbern threw his hands up in exasperation. "Haven't you figured it out yet?” he sighed. “Alduin has returned as the prophecies said. The dragon from the dawn of time who devours the souls of the dead. No one can escape his hunger, here or in the afterlife. Alduin will devour all things and the world will end. Nothing can stop him. I tried to tell them but they wouldn't listen. Now all we can do is watch our doom approach."

"Alduin," Mehra said. "The dragon who's raising the others? I've seen him.”

"Yes," he replied. "You know, but you refuse to understand."

"You're talking about the literal end of the world?"

Stopping an end-times prophecy was far beyond slaying a mortal who fed off of divine power to become a god.

"Oh yes.” Esbern said. “It’s been foretold; the end has begun. Alduin has returned. Only a dragonborn can stop him and one hasn't been seen for centuries. It seems that the gods have abandoned us to our fate, to Alduin the world-eater.”

Mehra put her hands on her hips. “I did tell you through the door that I'm dragonborn.”

"Really?” he gasped. “We have some hope, then! Quickly, we must go to Delphine. Let me gather a few things."

She watched as he scurried about his shelter, throwing books and papers into bags. Esbern turned his attention to the table in the center of the room, rolled up the map on it, and turned around again to rifle through a chest that sat at the foot of a small bed.

“No test?” Mehra asked. “Delphine made me kill a dragon and absorb its soul before she recognized me as dragonborn.”

Esbern looked up from the chest and blinked. “Well, I suppose if Delphine cleared you, then I have to trust that.”

“I –,” Mehra started, “I appreciate that. You don't want to see me use the Voice to see?”

“I'm sure we'll run into trouble along the way,” he shrugged.

Mehra nodded slowly then shrugged. “My name's Mehra, by the way. Sorry I didn't introduce myself.”

Esbern hunched over the chest, tossing books out of it. He stuffed some into his bag, while the less fortunate books were thrown into a pile.

“Mehra,” he mumbled, “strong name. Common name, too. I'm Esbern. Er, you know that already, though.”

After a few minutes of tossing books around and mumbling to himself, Esbern stood and shouldered his bag.

“To Delphine, then?” he said. “I hope it isn't too far.”

Mehra nodded and led him out into the sewer.

“In Riverwood, actually,” she replied. “It's a small milling town south of Whiterun. She runs an inn there.”

Behind her, Esbern let out a chuckle of amusement.

“I know,” Mehra agreed. “She doesn't seem like the innkeeper sort.”

“Certainly not,” he laughed. “Delphine is a doer. A bit hotheaded at times, but she gets results. How did you find me, anyway?”

Mehra stopped in front of the stairs that led up to the Thieves' Guild Cistern and sighed. She did owe him an explanation.

“It's not good,” she admitted. “Delphine had me sneak into a party at the Thalmor Embassy to steal documents. They have dossiers on you, Delphine, and Ulfric Stormcloak. By the time I got to the dungeon, they were torturing a young thief in hopes that they could jog his memory on the name of the old man living in the Warrens. He didn't tell them anything useful, but –”

“They'd hunt down any old man in search of me,” Esbern interjected. “Do they know I'm here, then?”

He glanced up at the door that led to the Cistern and gave it a suspicious look.

“I don't know,” Mehra replied. “I took their interrogation logs, dossiers, any documents I could find with your name on it. The thief made it back, too. They might not know, but it's not safe here anymore.”

“Agreed.”

Mehra looked up at the Cistern door. “I'll take point. If something is off, I can shout them across the room while you run away.”

Esbern didn't look impressed. “If you're dragonborn,” he said, “then I am sworn to protect you – not the other way around.”

Mehra crossed her arms and sighed. He was technically correct, but if something happened to him, she'd be out of luck again.

“How about we watch out for each other?” she countered.

“Sounds reasonable.”

With their plan agreed on, they took the stairs up to the Cistern and opened the door. Mehra peered out into the area and breathed a sigh of relief at the absence of Thalmor.

Off to the side, someone let out a low whistle. A quick glance told her that it was Brynjolf. He motioned toward Ravyn and said something about escorting the pair of them out. Were they that concerned about one of them stealing something?

Brynjolf jogged up to them and took his place to her right. Ravyn followed behind them, his weapons put away, but ready to be drawn at any second.

“Quick and quiet,” Brynjolf said. “You should really join us, though. You're a great sneak. If you're not in for money, you can have fame like you wouldn't imagine.”

Mehra let out a dry laugh, ignoring how the other thieves glared at her. “Fame?” she said. “Do you know the name of the Nerevarine? The Champion of Cyrodiil who ended the Oblivion Crisis?”

“I do not,” he sighed. “I understand. I just hate to have someone who could be so talented slip through our fingers.”

Esbern shifted beside her. “Mehra Dreloth,” he said. “Rose to the rank of Operative of the Blades. Associated with the Morag Tong, but more importantly, House Telvanni – very powerful wizard. Fulfilled the prophecy of the Incarnate and destroyed Dagoth Ur. Disappeared.”

Mehra swallowed. Of course, the Blades Loremaster would know her name. Why wouldn't he? Brynjolf appeared skeptical.

“Erich Heartfire,” he continued, “Knight-Brother of the Blades. Had many shadowy connections. Allegedly Listener of the Dark Brotherhood. Still, he managed to rise to a higher calling and helped Martin Septim relight the Dragonfires. Slew Mannimarco, King of Worms, even. Strength of an ox, that one. Another powerful wizard, but it's noted that he was horribly untrained. Also disappeared.”

“A Nord?” Brynjolf marveled, “Champion? That could mean a lot for modern politics. Not that I doubt you, but how would you know this?”

Esbern gave him a smile and clapped him on the back. “Read a book, young man,” he replied. “In fact, read as many books as you can. The powers-that-be want you to become complacent and ignorant.”

He turned to the thieves and gave them a short bow. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he called. “You are good to not let an old man starve. Blessings of Akatosh upon you.”

With that, they left the Cistern and wound back through the sewer to come back out into the city. When the door closed behind them, Mehra turned to Esbern.

“We can either stay here,” she said, “or travel fast and light, and make camp when we need to.”

“The second one,” he replied. “Always, the second one. No need for being seen for more than a few seconds at most.”

Mehra nodded and led him out of the city. Hopefully, they'd make it to Riverwood without any problems.

 

* * *

 

 

4E201. Solstheim.

 

She was young and needed the money.

At the time she took up the job of becoming Master Neloth's steward, Varona knew as much about him as anyone else on the island: he was an old, insane wizard, and he had a hoard of money up in his tower of horrors. Growing up on Solstheim, she was told from a very young age to avoid the strange mushroom settlement down the road at all costs.

She was never a good listener. If that lady, Elynea, left Raven Rock to grow mushrooms for the old wizard, came back to trade with them, and appeared completely unscathed, then certainly there wasn't too much to fuss about. And she grew mushrooms for the wizard for years.

When Elynea came into town one day years ago saying that the crazy old wizard of Tel Mithryn needed a steward, people nearly ran her out of town. But Varona heard about it, and she was young and definitely needed the money. There wasn't much adventure to be had on the island – apart from bears and werewolves further inland, and hunting wasn't her sort of fun – so Varona was intrigued. At the very least, she'd have decent pay and a place to live that wasn't her parents' home.

Her parents attempted to stop her, but she couldn't be discouraged. That very day – likely before she could change her mind – she packed what little belongings she had and made the journey with Elynea out of Raven Rock toward the mushroom tower.

During their walk, Varona attempted to get some information about the Master of the tower out of Elynea, but the mycologist remained quiet on the matter. She simply said that Master Neloth was a serious man, dedicated to his research, and that he was thousands of years old. Any further than that, Varona would have to see for herself.

Thousands of years old. Varona pictured a hooded, black cloaked, old man with a deeply wrinkled face, long, scraggly beard, and a toothless mouth. He'd be fat, of course; he was nobility after all.

When they walked up the ash-covered walkway to the tower, Varona remarked that there weren't any guards. Elynea shrugged and told her that if it were the mainland, it would be necessary, but with Solstheim as it was, Master Neloth needed no assistance in defending his keep.

Elynea opened the tower door, showed her inside, told her how to use the levitation portal – a strange device that she still marveled over, even forty years later – and directed her to follow her up to meet Master Neloth.

He was the exact opposite of what she expected. Neloth was tall and slim – shockingly youthful; middle-aged at most, and to her absolute horror: handsome.

Her new employer was not allowed to be handsome.

The attraction lasted a grand total of two weeks before Varona realized he was absolutely abhorrent. Neloth had the personality of the ashy, filthy slurry that collected in the streets of Raven Rock from runoff after the snow melted in the spring.

Forty-some years of working for him and Varona knew his moods well enough. She knew when to give him space and when to push; when to bring him a cup of tea and when to stay the hell out. It was difficult when he asked her to be on-hand when she knew she ought to stay away. At the moment, she attempted to balance the ledger while remaining on call. A new trader came in to Raven Rock – descendant Hlaalu, from the slimy looks of him, and he wasn't afraid to come directly down the road from the town to the tower to make a deal with the Master himself.

“Say that again!”

Varona flinched as Neloth slammed the trader against the wall of the tower. Wide-eyed, she peered up from her ledger to watch him threaten the man with a string of expletives – at least, some of the words she understood were expletives.

“Without magic,” the trader said.

Neloth had been grouchy since Ildari, his apprentice-turned-trick, died. She supposed that either Ildari got past the nastiness, liked the nastiness because she was equally nasty, or wanted his power and money. Perhaps, it was a combination of the three. Regardless, she was gone and Neloth's apparent lack of sex made him unbearable.

Varona hoped that someone would take a hit for the team. She sure as hell wasn't going to do it; she had standards, after all.

“You must think I was born yesterday,” Neloth hissed. “I could break your arm five different ways right now, you prick.”

The fool found the capacity to smirk. “Without magic?” The trader repeated.

Neloth lashed out and Varona screwed her eyes shut and slapped her hands over her ears at the sound of the first crack. Even with her ears covered, she heard the screams.

Neloth grumbled something – hopefully not at her; she didn't want to deal with it. Varona cracked her eyes open and let out a sigh of relief when she saw a frowning Talvas escorting the trader out. Uncovering her ears, she hunched over her ledger as the apprentice led the sobbing man to the entrance of the tower.

The tower door opened and closed within a matter of seconds. To her right, the levitation beam glowed as it allowed Talvas to drift back up to the main level.

“Rude guy,” he remarked, glancing back down at the door.

Varona stole a brief look at Neloth to see that he was still seething.

“Did you heal him?” the Master scowled.

Talvas held his hands up in defense, his eyes wide. “Was I supposed to?”

“No.”

“I didn't heal him,” he replied.

Neloth's face softened slightly. “Good,” he said. “He comes into my house! My house!”

Varona flinched. She never heard him shout so loudly in all her years working for him. Maybe she could sneak back to her quarters to work the ledger.

“I apologize for not stepping in,” Talvas mumbled. “I shouldn't have allowed him to inconvenience you, much less insult you in such a way.”

Neloth shook his head and visibly deflated. Really, Talvas was a genius at sucking up enough to get Neloth to relax.

“I didn't know you knew how to do that,” the apprentice marveled. “I've never seen such a thing. You shattered that guy's arm with barely any effort.”

Ah, and there was the ego stroke. Get Neloth to talk about himself, and he was sure to be in a better mood. After all, Neloth was the most important thing to Neloth.

Neloth pinned Talvas with a bored look. “Yes, clearly I wouldn't know about anything other than magic, and my youth and inexperience have me at a certain disadvantage.”

Varona chuckled quietly in her seat. No, she wasn't aware that he was skilled at martial combat, but it made sense. He was ancient; who knew what secrets were in his nasty head?

She watched as Neloth sighed in frustration and put his head in his hands. Perhaps, she pitied him a little. How was he to know that the Council selected the exact opposite of his previous apprentice?

Not that he appreciated Ildari; he seemed to barely tolerate the girl outside of – well, all those times they locked the door for experiments and didn't allow anyone in.

Come to think of it, he did the same with Talvas. Surely, they weren't?

She gave the apprentice a thoughtful glance. There were no strange looks between the two, and certainly no moments where Neloth abruptly threw everyone out of the tower, save the two of them. Varona shook her head. No; they weren't.

“Varona! Are you done with done with that ledger already? We need our supply list.”

Varona grit her teeth and dipped her quill in the inkwell. She'd been asking for a list from everyone for the past week. Of course, she'd get an answer when she was busy.

“I can write your list in the margin, Master,” she replied.

But at least she got the list.

Varona wrote the list as it was dictated to her and sighed. At least the trip to Raven Rock would be a welcome break.

 

* * *

 

Mehra was never good at waiting.

Esbern was safe with Delphine. While their reunion was touching – Mehra never thought Delphine could show an emotion other than anger – she was stuck waiting until the Blades sent word to her.

It wasn't good enough for Delphine to take Esbern at his word; she wanted to fact-check his assumption about the return of Alduin. So the old man stayed at the Sleeping Giant inn, poring over the books he brought with him in order to find an abandoned Blades fort that existed somewhere in Skyrim. Apparently, the old Blades prophesied Alduin's return.

Mehra bowed out of the tedium and told them to send word to Breezehome once they figured out the location. She wasn't about to wait around in Riverwood smelling like Riften's backside.

Of course, Mehra didn't forget her promise to Aela that she would bring back the shard of Wuuthrad from the Silver Hand. She slipped out of Riverwood, killed every last would-be werewolf slayer she encountered, took the shard, and took the fastest route back to Whiterun.

After giving the fragment of Wuuthrad to Aela, she traded gems and a fair amount of coin for a commission of the staff for Neloth, as well as a new set of armor. Eorlund agreed that Mehra needed to have armor for her station, and what could be better than the Dragonborn wearing armor made of dragon scales?

Mehra shifted the weight of the dragonbone staff on her back and rolled her shoulders as she trudged down the road that led toward Windhelm. Even though the armor was new, it was incredibly comfortable. Eorlund outdid himself with it.

The dragon skull for the helm felt like it was overkill, but considering her audience of Nords, it would make an excellent impact. Certainly, the Companions and people of Whiterun who saw her did a doubletake at the sight of it.

Mehra rounded the corner of a large hill and walked down the road to Windhelm. Out front of the gate, a group of guards stood – more than there were last time. They stepped up their fortifications.

She let out a breath at the sight of the dead dragon off to the side of the ancient stone bridge.

“Good going, guys,” Mehra mumbled. “Excellent work. That soul's mine.”

Walking up to the city, she watched as people stared in her direction. One guard nudged his partner next to him and leaned in to say something to him. Others pointed at her.

It reminded her of the looks she received in Morrowind when she walked the streets with her Hortator garb. Good; they knew she was there to be serious, then.

Mehra strolled toward the dead dragon and watched as the wispy tendrils of spirit glowed brighter in response to her presence.

“Hey, lady!” a guard called. “Back off from the dragon. We can't be responsible if something happens to you.”

She ignored him and stepped closer. Wind kicked up around the dragon as its soul sped toward her.

“Lady, are you listen– Shor's bollocks! What in Oblivion is going on?!”

Mehra closed her eyes. The soul poured into her, filling her mind in wait for the next word. Footsteps ran up behind her and Mehra sighed. Well, if she wanted to make a statement, she certainly did so.

She turned to see the guard who shouted at her – Captain of some kind, by the medal on his mail – behind her, his sword drawn.

“What kind of magic did you just do, greyskin?” he asked. Breath came out from under his helm quickly; he was nervous.

“Dragonborn,” she scowled. “I am dragonborn.”

His eyes widened underneath the visor of his helm. “Mighty Talos came to us and slew that dragon! He came with a priest of Akatosh and declared the Dragonborn. Are you truly the one?”

Mehra swallowed and crossed her arms. Someone knew who she was. “Please, describe Talos to me.”

Maybe, it really was Talos. She even had the chance to see him with her own eyes before she began her trek past the Ghostgate to fight Dagoth Ur.

“Tall, strong Atmoran man,” he said. “Wore Imperial Champion armor and glowed like the sun. His hair looked like the moonlight and his eyes were gold like the sunset. Surprisingly youthful; didn't have a beard. But I'd know my God when I see him! With my own eyes, at that!”

Mehra bit her lip and held back a sigh. Goddammit, Erich. She didn't want to be involved with this. While she knew Erich well, she also met Talos briefly. Neither were to be crossed.

“Where are you headed, then?” the guard asked. “Come to fight the good fight, Dragonborn?”

By Azura, no. She wouldn't join the Stormcloaks, and there was nothing they could do to convince her. Mehra took a deep breath. She had to temper herself.

“To Solstheim,” she replied. “In time, I will have a proclamation for Windhelm, sera.”

His face scrunched in distaste at her use of a Morrowind honorific. She'd give Windhelm a proclamation of condemnation for the treatment of her people, but a proclamation nonetheless.

“Solstheim? Why there?” he asked.

“Hunting,” Mehra lied.

The guard nodded and shrugged. “Hirstaag's not what it used to be,” he admitted, “but up on the northern end of the island at the Isinfier Plains, there's still some great game to be had. Good luck then, Dragonborn. Odd that you're not a Nord.”

“I do not question Akatosh,” she replied.

He visibly deflated. “I ought not to either, uh, sera.”

Mehra smirked. “I am serjo, sir.”

“Serjo? Haven't heard that one before.”

“You may want to ask someone in the Gray Quarter about it,” she shrugged.

“Right,” he frowned. “Well, safe hunting, serjo.”

Mehra gave him a nod, turned, and walked toward the city. The guards at the end of the bridge eyed her warily and parted to let her in. As she crossed the slush covered bridge, citizens and travelers alike moved to the sides of bridge, some whispering the word 'dragonborn'.

Good. There were others who either studied history or believed the legend. Regardless of the cause, Mehra made a name for herself with her armor and ability to absorb the soul of the dragon that smoldered outside the city for some time.

And in a back-handed way, Erich and his shenanigans helped her. He did proclaim the dragonborn in a way. Maybe, he did it for her benefit?

Mehra shook her head as she stepped into the city. No, Sheogorath caused mischief on his own; if she benefited from it, then it was nothing more than happenstance. She certainly couldn't expect a daedra lord – a chaotic one, at that – to go out of his way for her. She had an artifact for summoning in case of emergency; that was more than enough.

She made her way through the city, pleased when people stepped out of her way to give her strange looks. If it were Whiterun, Mehra would find it unnecessary, but here in Windhelm, she'd take any amount of respect – even a little bit of fear.

Her trek took her deeper into Windhelm, through the wealthy district. Mehra looked for a set of stairs that would lead her down to the Gray Quarter that housed the docks, but the built-up ancient city was a maze.

It made her appreciate the circular sprawl of Sadrith Mora. Whoever designed it and issued permits throughout the thousands of years of its existence kept it organized. Perhaps, given his age, Divayth Fyr had something to do with it? Or perhaps, Ex-Archmagister Gothren? But, Neloth had his keep there; he was the Mage-Lord in charge of the city for thousands of years.

Mehra snorted at the idea of Neloth as an urban planner. Surely, such things were too trivial–

“What the hell is that?” a man gasped.

Mehra turned to find a Nord openly staring at her. He clutched a basket of goods from the market, his gloved hand wrapped tightly around the wooden handle. The man leaned forward to squint his eyes at her.

“A person in dragon armor,” she shrugged. “Completely normal.”

He shook his head. “Damn,” the man whistled, “we've got a Gray Quarter, but not a black quarter. You look like you belong in Oblivion, lady.”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you a dremora or something?” he asked, his expression wary.

Seriously? She had no red on her face.

“I'm Dunmer,” Mehra frowned. “A very angry Dunmer wizard. Also: dragonborn.”

“S-stay away from me, Oblivion walker!”

Mehra rolled her eyes and fought the urge to shout him down to the ground as he scrambled away.

Already, her trip to Solstheim was off to a bad start. She had a bit too much publicity, and had a guy call her a dremora. Mehra sighed and hunched her shoulders. She probably designed the staff wrong and would get yelled at. But, she couldn't do anything with a blank anyway, so she might as well go through with her plan.

Mehra shifted the staff on her back and reminded herself that she'd been through much worse.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: THERE IS SEX IN THIS CHAPTER. IT IS NSFW. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.  
** **The scene is easily skippable, if it's not your cup of tea. It's not marked, but it gets pretty obvious where it happens.**

Very long chapter to make up for in case you skip the scene. It's not very long though~

Thank you everyone for your support so far. I read every comment, review, and message, and I try to respond to them all if there's a way to reply. Sometimes my illness doesn't give me the energy to send a message or a reply to a comment (rare but it does happen), but please know that I am sincerely grateful for each and every reader. Don't feel shy if you want to strike up a conversation :)

 

* * *

 

 

_Everything you do is just a bit easier, more instinctive, more satisfying. It is as though you had suddenly developed keen senses and instincts._

 

* * *

 

4E 201. Windhelm.

 

The melting of the snow made holding court more tolerable. While the palace was well designed, the far northern city of Windhelm had one of the coldest winters in Skyrim. When the snow lay thick around Windhelm, the great hall was cold enough that it could make even a battle-hardened Nord shiver.

Ulfric didn't know how the heat-loving dark elves made it in their slum. They weren't made for such things. Granted, he was certain that he would sweat endlessly if he ever visited Morrowind. He wasn't made for it, and there was the rub of the whole thing:

Nords weren't made for Morrowind, so they made their home in the frozen north. Dark elves weren't made for the frozen north, yet they still insisted on attempting to carve out a living there. Oil and water, that. Still, he'd welcome an honest trader to the Gray Quarter in the hopes that they'd be a good influence; crime was rampant down there.

If they took up sword, then Ulfric could accept them as any Nord. As it was, the dark elves' refusal to aid the Stormcloaks spoke volumes. They had no loyalty to their Jarl. It was a punishable offense, to be sure, but Ulfric had the hopes that some would come to their senses.

What had the Empire done for the dark elves, anyway? They cast down their Tribunal gods – false, though they were. They abandoned Morrowind to its fate during the Oblivion Crisis, leaving mages – improper warriors – to attempt to defend the province, though reports said that the Telvanni clan held their own admirably, but at great loss. Then, when Red Mountain erupted, it was Skyrim who opened her arms the widest, despite a bloody feud that ran thousands of years deep.

Ulfric turned his eyes toward the guard captain who stood in front of him. It seemed that someone was causing trouble outside the city. There were strict rules that nobody was to touch the smoldering dragon out front of the gate. Some fool decided to go up to the damned thing.

“A dark elf?”

“Yes, a dark elf, my King,” the Captain confirmed. “Woman. Tall for a dark elf. Strong and well-armed for a wizard.”

It figured so, really.

“Not king,” Ulfric protested. “Not yet. Tradition will give me the position, but I am not High King yet.”

“Yes, my Jarl,” the guard nodded.

He stroked his beard in thought. He heard the summons from the Greybeards some time ago; likely, everyone in Skyrim heard it. Ulfric had hopes that they summoned a Son of Skyrim to their monastery on top of the Throat of the World, but no word came from any of his cities.

Later, he learned that the Dragonborn had come from Whiterun – from his childhood rival Balgruuf's capital city; from a milk-drinker who refused to take up arms against the Empire. That thought alone brought a sour taste to his mouth. They needed to have Whiterun join the rebellion.

But, a dark elf wearing the title of Dragonborn? Had the gods truly abandoned those who wished to uphold their laws?

It couldn't be. Dragonborn were historically humans, and they certainly weren't dark elves.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Uh,” the guard mumbled, “she told me to call her 'serjo'. Whatever that means.”

Ah. There it was. Ulfric uncrossed his arms and chuckled.

“Serjo is a dark elf honorific,” he explained. “It is used to address lords and nobility. I think we have our answer.”

“My Jarl?”

“What you saw was likely a soul trap spell,” Ulfric said. “We have a dark elf wizard who decided to play a trick on us. Thankfully, we are not the barbarians that they claim we are.”

“Probably an evil wizard, then,” the guard frowned. “She wore dark, jagged armor. Looked like it was made of dragon scales. Had the darkest skin of any dark elf I saw.”

Daedric armor? Then this woman could become a problem. But there was nothing he could do without raising the alarm. And panic in a time of war was the last thing his people needed.

“Her skin had nothing to do with it,” Ulfric replied. “But the information you have given me is helpful. Allow her passage in and out of the city. She certainly isn't working for the Thalmor; dark elves have clan loyalty, if they have any at all. If she causes further trouble, have someone find me right away.”

“Yes, my Jarl,” the captain replied.

“Now, was there anything else?” he asked. Hopefully, nothing else. There was too much trouble, these days.

“That was all, my Jarl.”

The guard snapped a salute as Ulfric dismissed him. He watched as the man made haste to get back to his post and settle the crowd down.

As soon as the hall door closed, the Jarl slumped in his seat.

“Daedric armor, Ulfric?” Galmar grumbled.

Ulfric turned to his second in command and sighed. “Yes, Galmar. Daedric armor. I don't like it either. Still, unless there is a strong reason to get involved, we should leave it be.”

“Soul-trapping that dragon – which our court wizard couldn't do, mind you – isn't a strong enough reason?”

He shook his head. “And you would do what? Duel said wizard one on one? We do not know this person's power. Daedric armor speaks of much of it.”

Galmar nodded slowly, a somber moment of silence passing between them as they both pondered on what happened. With a deep sigh, Galmar crossed his arms.

“You don't think she has anything to do with that false-Talos, do you?” he asked.

Ulfric put his head in his hands. “That was my exact worry. We still do not know what manner of creature he was. Wuunferth suspects a daedra – a shapeshifting daedra. He said that one with the ability to do so would be powerful indeed.”

“One wonders what it was trying to achieve,” Galmar grumbled, “slaying a dragon, making cats and dogs rain from the sky, destroying the hay in the stable, and banishing everyone's clothing.”

“Mischief, likely,” he shrugged. “At least, that is my hope. First him and his false priest, and now this wizard. We should have our ears out for information about her.”

Galmar nodded. “It will be done, Jarl Ulfric.”

He was thankful for Galmar. Without him, Ulfric was certain that he wouldn't have had as much success. And with him, they would get to the bottom of this mess with the wizard.

Windhelm had enough trouble lately without meddling wizards thrown into the mix.

 

* * *

 

 

The stares in this town made her uncomfortable; Mehra didn't like the attention from Raven Rock, but knew that she'd get it wherever she went. Local Dunmer and visiting Nords alike stopped in the middle of their tasks to watch her walk by, some whispering about her strange armor.

Mehra walked down the single cobbled street that ran the length of the town, the wrapped staff on her back heavy and unfamiliar. Staves were never her thing; by using a sword and spells, she was able to use up her stores of magicka and have a blade to continue the fight. Of course, now that she had the power of the Voice, Mehra had even more weapons at her disposal.

As she made her way to the bulwark that stood against the wilds of Solstheim, one of the Redoran guard stepped away from his post to meet her in the middle of the street.

Mehra sighed and kept her expression as neutral as possible. She didn't know what he wanted, and didn't want to push her luck. Strangely enough, he lifted the visor on his bonemold helm to reveal his face. He was young, and from the looks of how he held his spear, a bit inexperienced.

“Dragon armor, muthsera?” he asked, giving her a big grin. “Killed it yourself, perhaps?”

She shrugged. “Yes, after a fashion.”

“With that fine steel sword there? Beautiful gear, muthsera.” His eyes scanned her body quickly.

Her 'gear', was it?

“With an average steel sword,” Mehra drawled. “My spells did most of the work.”

“Spells?” he chuckled. “With a kit like that, you don't need spells.” The other guard posted at the bulwark cleared his throat loudly, causing him to roll his eyes.

Mehra arched a brow. He was on duty, for Azura's sake.

“My spells are stronger than my kit,” she shrugged. “Telvanni way.”

He sobered immediately. “I suppose that's why you're here, then. Delivering something?” He motioned toward the bundle strapped to her back.

“Staff for Master Neloth,” Mehra replied.

The Redoran guard glanced behind him toward the open road. “He came into town some time ago,” he murmured. “Took a look at the standing stone at the edge of town that has people under some kind of mind control. He looks much different than I'd imagined.”

She nodded quietly in agreement.

“I'd uh, better let you go,” the guard said. “I don't want to come even close to crossing that guy. A trader came back into town a few days ago with his arm shattered. Said he did it.”

Mehra shrugged. That sounded about right for Neloth. “If there wasn't anything else?” she asked.

“No. Sorry for bothering you.” He sighed, shook his head, and lowered the visor of his helm.

Mehra arched a brow at his retreating figure. Apparently, Neloth's reputation was just as bad on Solstheim as it had been in Sadrith Mora. She expected no less of him, really.

With the interruption over, she continued out of Raven Rock and out onto the road toward Tel Mithryn.

Traveling in the ash was always an adventure. It collected in every crack and rut in the road, making the way seem smooth when it actually wasn't. Somehow, Mehra remembered how to navigate it; she hadn't forgotten months of traveling through the Molag Amur region of Vvardenfell to make contact with the Ashlanders and to set up her tower.

Really, it was difficult to forget all the times she thought she was stepping on solid ground, only to step in a ash-covered rut and twist her ankle. The road out of Raven Rock was covered in ash as thick as the area behind the Ghostfence on Vvardenfell; it made her double-check every step.

Hours later, the cap of the mushroom of Neloth's tower came into view. She felt lighter this time. Still nervous, yes, but much lighter than she had felt in ages. Whatever happened, happened; if need be, she could start over entirely and forget about House Telvanni.

Her stomach clenched at the thought. No, she couldn't do that.

Mehra approached the tower, glancing at the hours old footprints in the ash that led up to the tower. Petite pairs of footprints led from small dwellings outside toward the main tower. A larger set trailed from the kitchens toward the main tower. Two others led directly from the tower out to the front of the settlement proper, almost indecipherable because the set in the back stepped almost exactly where the person in the front walked.

As she made her way closer, her assassin mind – always working behind the scenes – identified about five living there; two elite, three servants. Had she not known of Neloth's height, Mehra may have mistaken the large set of footprints for a Nord.

Come to think of it, Divayth Fyr was tall. Perhaps, Dunmer were larger back in the First Era. But two certainly wasn't a decent sample size.

Shaking her head, Mehra trudged up the path to the front door, knocked the ash off of her boots, and opened the heavy oak door to the tower. Warm air rushed out of the tower, pulling the door with it. Wincing, Mehra caught the handle in time to prevent it from slamming.

A slammed door would certainly aggravate Neloth and set her visit off on the wrong foot.

“You are quite obsessed with the Nerevarine, boy.”

Oh?

Mehra turned her gaze toward the upper floor.

“You don't answer my questions, though,” Talvas said. “This is the hero of our people.”

Of course the apprentice wanted to know. Mehra waited quietly at the bottom of the levitation beam, curious about what Neloth had to say.

“We spoke a total of perhaps ten minutes maximum. The woman was barely memorable, aside from her appearance. She had her head shaved and painted her face with red like a dremora,” Neloth sighed. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Well –”

“She wore Argonian skin boots.”

Mehra closed her eyes. She did have a prized pair, centuries ago –aqua green with pink detailing. Azura preserve her; no wonder she was humbled. She had done her share of things to make the world a worse place along with saving it.

“Rumors said she hoarded gems and that there was an entire room of her tower dedicated to them. Possibly a dragon's hoard, now that I think of it.”

Then, a grumble in a much lower volume:

“Wore netch leather pants so tight her arse looked like a pair of guar jogging down a gravel road.”

Mehra covered her mouth to hold in her laughter. If she remembered correctly, being noticed was the point of the entire thing.

“I uh,” Talvas murmured, “I didn't know that you noticed such things.”

“I may be old,” Neloth hissed. “But I'm not dead. The ritual makes us younger once we perform it."

With that, Mehra chose to make her presence known before things became more awkward for the young apprentice. She opened and shut the front door loudly, just to try to fool them.

“Hello!” she called, “I have returned bearing gifts!”

Talvas leaned over the railing and smiled. “Hello, Nerevarine! I was hoping you'd return eventually.”

She heard Neloth grumbling off to the side. Shaking her head, Mehra stepped into the beam of light and levitated up to the main room of the tower. As she unwrapped her ash scarf, Neloth looked up from his table and Mehra stopped in her tracks. He gave her a pointed look that said he knew that she overheard everything he said in the past minute. The quick motion of his eyes scanning her body said all she needed to know.

“Master Neloth,” she nodded. “You look well.”

You look as young as your apprentice; she wanted to say. Handsome, in fact, if she didn't remember the deep wrinkles and the cane two centuries prior.

“I have no clue why some of the Masters choose to become this young again,” he frowned. “It is filled with too much distraction and inconvenience.”

Distraction? Heaven forbid he get distracted by a pair of breasts every few decades. Or, an ass, if what he said earlier was anything to go by.

Mehra shrugged. “I am always this young. I wouldn't know life any other way.”

“Excuse you, then,” Neloth grumbled.

He went back to flipping through ancient tomes on his desk, an awkward silence hanging in the air. Talvas fidgeted off to the side. It was obvious that he was bursting with questions.

“You have questions, so ask them.”

He startled and caught himself.

“I, um.”

A woman floated up the transport with a book in her hands and placed it on the table next to Neloth.

“Varona,” Talvas said. “This is Mehra Dreloth. She's the Nerevarine.”

Varona gasped in surprise. “Truly?”

Mehra nodded.

Neloth slammed his fist on the table. “Dammit, Talvas! What did I tell you?”

“I don't mind,” Mehra said. “I'm certain you all can keep a secret here. Yes; I am the Nerevarine. But I'm not as legendary as the stories would have you think.”

Really. She wasn't.

“I was a teenager when you saved us from the blight,” Talvas said. “So I heard some firsthand stories, and I'd beg to differ. I'm not a Master but, well, magic is youth.”

“So, we're almost the same age,” Mehra mused. She took the wrapped staff off of her back and sat down at a nearby table. Her feet were weary from the long walk. Talvas sat down across from her while Varona glanced at Neloth.

“Fine,” the Master grumbled. “Sit down, Varona. Ask the girl questions.”

Smiling, she made her way to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat.

“Alright, well,” Talvas said. “Where did the scars on your face come from?”

Mehra closed her eyes and chuckled as she heard Neloth grumbling about his apprentice being an idiot. What a way to start off. She supposed it wouldn't matter anyway, telling the events of a contract that happened two hundred years ago.

“Writ of execution gone bad,” she said. “The target saw me in time to get a good swipe in. Took a pair of ebony and diamond rings to the face. I was working on a new assassination style at the time.”

“She's an assassin,” Neloth mused. “You certainly get around, woman.”

Mehra laughed. He was right; she tried a little bit of everything with every faction, and she still had the urge to diversify her skills to some degree.

“My assassination style is what made me decide to join House Telvanni,” she said. “I found that if I dropped down, put my hand over their mouth, and punched them in the gut, they'd always inhale. And when they inhale is when you hit them with a spell. They'll suck up the damage and you can finish them off at your leisure. After discovering that, I knew I had to study more.”

Varona shifted awkwardly in her seat. Clearly, she wasn't used to the idea of assassins. But assassins were simply a part of life to Morrowind natives. Perhaps, Varona wasn't from Morrowind.

“So, were you Morag Tong, or Dark Brotherhood?” Talvas asked, earning another mumbled string of curses from Neloth about stupid questions.

“Morag Tong, of course,” Mehra chuckled. “When I found out that I could be paid to legally kill people, I wanted to be part of that.”

A gulf of silence fell over the group as Neloth gave Talvas a smug look. The tower door opened and slammed shut, causing the apprentice to jump. Seconds later, a man floated up with a tray of tea in his hands. He scuttled over to Neloth, placed the tray on the endtable next to his bench, and quickly made his way back to the beam. Apparently, moods like this were common in the tower; he was gone as quickly as he'd arrived.

Mehra sighed and unstrapped the dragon skull helm from her head. She stared at it – empty eye sockets, pure white bone, glossy black horns – and shook her head.

“I'm not the hero everyone thinks I am,” she admitted. “And I don't want to make any claims of the sort. I don't know why Azura chose a serial-killer, apart from the fact that she wanted Dagoth Ur dead, and I was real good at making that happen.”

“Another damned convict the Empire decided to dump off on our shores,” Neloth grumbled. “At least that one did something productive.”

Varona furrowed her brow and scooted her chair closer to the table. “So, the Empire decided to send convicts to Morrowind as punishment?”

“Sometimes, yeah,” Talvas shrugged. “I honestly don't know why they did that.”

Neloth hunched over his book and waved a dismissive hand in his apprentice's direction. “Colonial Imperialism, idiot.”

Mehra nodded in agreement. While the old Empire was great in some respects, it did a host of terrible things along with the good.

Neloth turned the page of his book and pursed his lips. “So, you must have killed Gothren,” he said. “With you being an assassin and all.”

“Aryon told me it was the only way.”

“He coveted that position for years,” Neloth snorted. “Did that occur to you during your scheming?”

“I knew,” Mehra admitted. “And I wanted him to have it.”

“How did you do it?” Talvas asked, his eyes wide.

Honestly, she wasn't quite sure how she was able to kill him. After being cured of her corprus, she figured that she was near invincible. And that was the problem with it: Mehra made her success by bludgeoning her way through anything in her way.

She was quite certain that one couldn't do the same with Alduin.

“First of all,” Mehra said, “Gothren was a powerful wizard, yes. There was no way I'd get past his wards and magical resistance.”

Magically, she didn't stand a chance against the Archmagister.

“So I strong-armed him into a corner and choked him out. But he was a beast of a man – the size of a Nord, easily. Had to down a lot of potions to overpower him. Puked all over an altar of that bi– uh, Almalexia – after I cast Almsivi intervention to make a quick exit.”

Neloth put his head in his hands, sighed deeply, then let out a dry chuckle. “My rival and nemesis,” he mused, “choked to death by an upstart kid. It's quite wonderful, really.”

He lifted his head to stare her in the eyes and scowled. “If you're expecting a 'thank you', you can forget it.”

“Oh, I did it all for me,” Mehra snorted. “You didn't enter the equation once.” She crossed her arms, refusing to back down when he sent her a bewildered look. Yes, she dared sass him in his own home.

To the side, Talvas and Varona stared at her in disbelief.

“You ought to consider me, then,” Neloth smirked. “I'm important, you know.”

“Maybe I have,” Mehra shrugged. She had yet to give him the staff, but she supposed that she could wait for a break in the questions.

Talvas cleared his throat awkwardly. “So, what is this you're wearing? It's not daedric.”

Mehra opened her mouth, but Neloth giving her a once-over made her stop. He was looking at her armor, right?

“It's not even enchanted,” he drawled.

“Didn't have time for that,” Mehra replied. “And besides, I don't have to save my ego; enchanting isn't my best skill in the least. I don't care who knows that.”

One of the greatest enchanters to ever live sat in front of her. She had no room for bragging about her mediocre enchanting skill.

“I'm wearing dragon bone and scale armor,” she said. “It was taken from the first dragon I absorbed. It's tougher than ebony and the Nords appreciate it. Since I'm dealing with them, I figured I ought to dress accordingly.”

Varona shook her head. “Well, it can't be comfortable wearing full armor. If you want to make yourself at home, you're more than welcome to borrow my quarters for the night.”

Mehra rolled her shoulders underneath the heavy dragon scales. Shedding the armor seemed like a good idea.

“If that is to happen,” Neloth grumbled, “a Lord is to not sleep in servant's quarters. You shall stay in the tower as is proper to your station.”

She nodded quietly, stood, and began to unstrap her armor. Technically, Neloth was correct, but Mehra didn't think so highly of herself anymore. Knowing how the quarters were set up around the towers, Varona had a single bed within a single room serving as her main living space, with a dividing screen if she was lucky. Mehra wasn't going to keep her from her bed, though she appreciated the significance of such an invitation.

“Allow me to help you,” Varona offered.

Mehra shrugged. “If this can be stored somewhere out of the way, that's all I need.”

She unlatched each piece and carefully handed them to the steward, warning her when she handed Varona a heavier piece. To the side, Talvas stared at the dragon skull helm in fascination.

“What else have you been up to, besides killing dragons?” he asked.

Mehra halted at the buckle that strapped the scale to her right thigh. She broke into the Thalmor Embassy with Sheogorath, stole a pile of their documents, executed one of their highest officers, and freed one of their prisoners. She also aided in hiding an enemy of the Aldmeri Dominion.

“I um,” she mumbled, “I did something that could turn into an international incident. Let's leave it at that, shall we?”

Neloth shook his head and shut his book. “Oh, she's definitely one of us. Was it worth it, at least?”

“Very much.”

He nodded slowly, opened another book, and began to read it.

Interesting that she had his approval on that one, but when she thought about it, it wasn't all that surprising. Telvanni were unconventional by nature and liked to upset the balance of others for their own personal gain.

Talvas handed the helm to Varona and regarded Mehra with a strange look. “I couldn't help but notice what you started to say about Almalexia. Do you remember your past life?” He asked. “Does it feel strange to be who you are now? If that's too personal, you don't have to answer that.”

That was a great question, really. She was surprised that he didn't ask it earlier, as an academic. Perhaps, he wanted to be polite first before asking the questions he really wanted to know. Talvas seemed to be mindful of his manners – something odd for a Telvanni wizard.

“I remember being a man, somewhat,” Mehra shrugged. “I don't feel like that was me, though. It makes me feel like a voyeur, in a way.”

“How does the Nerevar thing work, then?” Talvas asked.

Ah, there was the question.

“I don't know,” she admitted. “I have some of his memories, but it's incomplete. My sword and spear skills are – well, they're not my own. It feels lazy to use them. That's why I learned magic.”

“When I think of Nerevar now,” she sighed, “I feel fondness. I wasn't always accepting of the whole 'reborn' idea. I still want to be me, you know? And the idea that I am possibly someone else was upsetting. But I think the memories of happier times are nice. There were tough times, but Nerevar had a good life.”

“So, you are Nerevar reborn, then?”

“I don't know, and I don't like thinking about it all that often, to be honest.”

If she was and Nerevar re-awakened, then she could possibly cease to exist.

“Things to keep you awake at night, hm?” Neloth mused.

Mehra sighed and hunched in her chair. “Yeah.”

He knew exactly what she was thinking about.

Shaking her head, Mehra glanced over at the wrapped staff on the table. She might as well give it to Neloth. That was the entire reason for her visit, after all. Hopefully, she designed something worthwhile. At the very least, Eorlund did a damned fine job creating it; if there was an error in it, then it would be entirely Mehra's fault.

Mehra grabbed the staff and stood. Well, here went nothing.

“Neloth, I have a gift for you.”

He looked up from his work to the bundle in her hands. Wordlessly, Mehra walked over to the desk and untied the staff's bindings. She removed it from the cloth and placed the staff in Neloth's hands. As he examined it, Mehra crouched next to him.

“It's dragonbone,” she said. “Made by Eorlund Greymane, the greatest smith in Skyrim. He's the only person I've met that would be able to forge weapons and armor out of it. Had to use the dragon's extracted teeth and claws to carve it; the bone broke any tool that tried to cut it.”

Eorlund swore a lot at that revelation. His tools were expensive. Still, the opportunity to make things out of dragon bone and hide was a once in a lifetime opportunity, so the smith eventually took it in stride.

Neloth examined the head of the staff in detail while Mehra waited anxiously. She hoped that she hadn't screwed this up; the designing phase was excruciatingly meticulous.

“Excellent workmanship,” he noted. “Everything appears to be in order. I suppose you're expecting a 'thank you'?”

“No,” Mehra snorted.

“Good. Gratitude is for the weak and foolish. It is a well-made staff, regardless.”

“It's my design,” she said.

Neloth looked at it again. “I couldn't tell,” he drawled, “the moon and star left me wondering. Still, the focus distance between the two apex branches is satisfactory.”

Satisfactory. That was damn near a compliment, coming from Neloth. Without a doubt, Mehra did a good job on it.

Talvas stepped forward to peer at the staff, and Neloth drew it away from his apprentice in an obvious show of jealousy. The gift definitely had Mehra in Neloth's good graces.

“Lady Nerevarine,” Talvas said, “I didn't know you designed staves as well.”

“It was my first one. I couldn't have finished the design without Eorlund's expertise. You could probably use it as a bludgeon too.”

Neloth looked between her and the staff. “Your first staff? You can't be serious.”

Mehra nodded and bit her lip to keep from grinning, failing miserably in the process.

“Talvas,” Neloth frowned, “you need to practice more. A lot more.”

Then, a lower, barely audible grumble: “Shouldn't have let Aryon be her patron.”

"Archmagister Aryon was your patron?” Talvas awed.

Mehra opened her mouth to answer, but Neloth cut in.

“Yes. Made it from the ground all the way to Master in a year and a half. You need to study more. Now, shoo! Get out of the tower. In fact, accompany Varona back to Raven Rock. There's too much for her to carry by herself.”

“Master?”

“I mean it,” Neloth said. He waved Talvas and Varona off with his hand.

Varona smiled at the apprentice. “I appreciate the assistance. We'll have to pack for an overnight trip.”

Talvas nodded dejectedly, grabbed a satchel, and stuffed whatever he thought he'd need into it. Without delay, the pair drifted down to the front door and left, the door slamming behind them.

Mehra smirked and looked at Neloth. “Well, if you wanted to be alone with me, all you had to do was ask.”

Neloth didn't reply to the contrary, reminding Mehra that this was the man who remembered the way her ass looked after two hundred years. She found herself curious as to his intentions; a woman could think he was trying something with her by throwing everyone out of the tower.

“Have you enchanted a staff before?” Neloth asked.

Mehra shook her head, and Neloth stood, motioning her to follow. They made their way across the tower toward a locked wicker door. Opening it, Neloth ushered her inside.

It was a small, tidy room. Rows of storage boxes lined the outer edges of the room. In the center stood what Mehra presumed to be two enchanters. On the right was a large ebony enchanter, complete with rows of lit candles. To the left, a curious hand-made arcane device sat. The top of the table was inlaid with soul gems, and in the center, a strange, glowing red stone sat. Wooden branches crossed over each other, lashed together with smaller, flexible pieces of wood. Really, the construction was quite marvelous, considering the state of the nearby forest. Perhaps, this was the staff enchanter. They were so rare that she wouldn't put it past Neloth to have made his own.

“I shall give you a lesson in enchanting, then,” Neloth said. “Consider yourself lucky.”

Mehra blinked. She did consider herself lucky. Of course, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of saying so.

“A private lesson? You must really like the staff.”

“You have a lot to learn, but I will admit – begrudgingly, mind you – that you may have some amount of natural talent.”

Mehra bit her lip and looked down at the floor.

“All my life,” she murmured, “I felt like I have used Nerevar's skills and had none of my own. I knew how to fight; my body just remembered it. I knew how to command troops and make tactical strategies.”

“But I learned magic mostly on my own,” Mehra said. “It feels good to hear someone say that. Especially someone so esteemed.”

Neloth shook his head. “You used to be such an angry, greedy, vain, little thing. What happened to that girl?”

“She grew up.”

“Well, that's trite.”

Mehra didn't have to see his face to know that he was rolling his eyes. He grabbed a small, wooden staff from one of the nearby crates and brought it to the wooden enchanter. Directing her over, he stood close as he explained how to enchant the staff, looming behind her and peering over her shoulder as she followed his instructions.

There was something about the small, intimate space of the enchanting room, the sound of the levitation portal nearby, and the hum of the soul gems. Behind her, Neloth radiated warmth and Mehra bit her lip, attempting to ignore it.

She barely knew this man, and from their brief conversation, it was clear that she never knew the true Neloth back in the Third Era. Either that, or he changed. Maybe it was both. Regardless, Mehra found herself liking him and his brutal honesty.

That was when she heard the snip of shears near the back of her neck.

“Neloth, what did you do?”

“Did what? Focus on your enchanting.”

“Neloth, did you cut off some of my hair?”

“Perhaps.”

Mehra turned around, craning her neck to glare up at him. “You could have asked.”

“I don't 'ask'.”

“Cutting my hair without permission? Seriously? Little boys do things like that.”

He loosened the snipped lock of hair from her bun, tugging until it came free of its nest.

“It's for an experiment,” he explained. “I want to examine it and see how it differs from the hair of mere mortals.”

“You could have asked.”

Neloth sighed and tossed the shears somewhere behind him.

“I don't care if you take it or not,” she chuckled. “I'd just like you to ask before you take things from me.”

“I wonder what else I ought to ask for, then.”

“Ask and find out,” Mehra replied. Shaking her head, she turned back to the enchanter and tried to remember what she was doing. Neloth took his place behind her to instruct. Mehra tried to focus on the task at hand, but he was right there. Were they having a certain moment, or something? He was a few thousand years old. Neloth didn't have these kinds of moments, did he?

He rested his hand on her lower back, telling her to take the soul gem – a common one for this staff – and Mehra blinked in confusion. This was a moment, wasn't it?

Neloth put his hand on top of hers and directed it toward a gem in a nearby stand.

“Let's take this one,” he suggested, his mouth close to her ear. Mehra smelled earthy canis root on his breath. Leaning together to grab the gem brought his chest flush against her back, and Mehra concluded that they were definitely having a moment.

He rested his head against hers, his mouth behind her ear.

“We usually start out with a petty one for a first staff,” Neloth said. “But, let's be daring today.”

Mehra bit her lip. “Yes, let's be daring.” The forbidden teacher-student angle was doing a lot for her, if she were honest with herself.

Neloth took that as an invitation to slide his hand from her hip to her rear. Mehra leaned in to his touch, inviting him to go further. With that, his other hand slid up her arm, snaking around to grasp her breast. His beard tickled her neck as moved his head to rest behind hers.

Mehra shuddered, her knees nearly buckling. It had been far too long since anyone caressed her.

The hand on her rear slipped forward to run an experimental finger along her clothed seam, eliciting a quiet moan. Emboldened by this, Neloth released her breast and skimmed his hand down her stomach to her pants. He flicked her belt open, and in the next second, his hand dove in to slide between her already soaked folds. A single digit hooked its way inside her and thrust lazily as his thumb worked her swollen clit.

Under his robes, she felt him hard against the back of her her thigh. How long had it been for him? It was so remote, here. She couldn't imagine him having many chances.

Neloth added a second finger and Mehra gasped. His scarred palm rubbed against her roughly, almost painfully. After a few strokes, the hand disappeared.

"May I?”

Mehra nodded, pleased by his directness. She bit her lip in anticipation and shimmied her pants down to her knees at the sound of rustling clothes behind her. He returned quickly, his hand wrapping around her waist.

“Not here,” he growled. “Over here. That staff enchanter is too fragile.”

With her pants hanging awkwardly around her knees, Neloth directed Mehra's hips toward the ebony arcane enchanter. She shimmied across the room as best she could. The cold ebony pressed against her hips as she leaned over the sturdy enchanter to present herself to him.

“I don't work in wood,” he said, “so the staff enchanter is somewhat fragile. I wonder: would your Skyrim smith be capable of creating an ebony frame for the staff enchanter? You should ask him the next time –”

“Neloth, fuck me already!”

“Oh, you're begging,” Neloth purred. He grabbed handfuls of her ass and gave her a squeeze.

“I am not begging! You just kept talking and –”

She couldn't help the loud moan that escaped her as he slowly slid inside her, inch by inch.

“Music to my ears,” Neloth grunted.

Mehra's eyes slid shut.

It hurt.

It felt so good.

She wasn't sure.

All she knew was that when he pulled back slowly, she wanted more. Neloth gave a few slow, experimental thrusts. Mehra pushed back against him, hoping that he'd get on with it.

He chuckled then began in earnest, seeming as eager as Mehra. His golden robe draped over her back and down the sides of her hips as their bodies slid together. Mehra gripped the enchanting table, gasping at the sensation of being filled for the first time in almost two centuries.

“Master,” she panted.

Neloth grunted in reply, thrusting faster into her demanding body.

“Oh, Master!” Gods, she was so close already.

Their mingled panting stirred the flames of the candles on top of the enchanter. A bead of wax to rolled down one of the candles, cooling halfway down the stick. With her hips digging into the edge of the enchanter, Mehra screwed her eyes shut.

Oh.

Oh. Right there.

Mehra bucked against him with a loud moan.

“Oh, Master! Yes!”

She crashed over the edge into climax, her entire body tensing and pulsing in ecstasy as she shouted again. Above her, Neloth groaned and joined her with slow, deep thrusts. Slowly, they ground together, wringing the last drops of pleasure they could from each other.

As they came down from their high, the pair collapsed, draping themselves over the arcane enchanter. Mehra let out a deep sigh and closed her eyes.

“Came together?” She mused. “That's cute.”

Neloth exhaled deeply above her. His hands framed her shoulders as he pushed off of the enchanter. Mehra heard him readjusting his clothes and decided to move as well. As soon as she stood, she looked down at her hips and hissed; the enchanter left deep indents in her skin. They'd likely bruise later.

She stared down at the marks and pursed her lips. A fully clothed quickie was not what she had in mind to break her two hundred year dry spell, but damn if it hadn't felt good. Still, she wanted more.

A damp washcloth hit her in the face, rudely bringing her out of her thoughts. Sighing, Mehra grabbed it and cleaned herself while Neloth busied himself with papers at a nearby desk.

“You still have to enchant that staff,” he said.

Mehra tugged her pants back into place. She was tempted to throw the washcloth back at him, but resisted the urge and instead, tossed it into a pile of rags on the floor near a bucket.

“I think I did a fine job enchanting that staff.”

Neloth cracked a rare smile. “I did all the work.” He turned back to his stack of papers.

“Well, you're pretty good with staves,” she grinned. “I needed that.”

“Of course you needed –”

“Neloth, it was two hundred years.”

He wheeled around and scowled at her. “Two hundred years? Who in their right mind goes without for so long?”

“Someone who was in prison for two hundred years is a likely guess,” she drawled. “Surrounded by snake-people that mate in a giant writhing ball once a year, might I add.”

Neloth blinked slowly at that information. Yes, snakes. He shrugged the information off then leaned back against the nearby staff storage. “I suppose you will want more from me.”

Mehra grinned. “Whatever gave you that impression?”

Neloth crossed his arms and stared at her. “The begging and moaning and you shouting, mostly,” he deadpanned.

She turned toward the staff enchanter once again. “Excuse a woman for making compliments,” Mehra crooned, glancing back out of the corner of her eye to see if he would take the bait.

“I know what I'm doing. Now, get back to your enchanting.”

Mehra's shoulders shook as she fought to hold in laughter. She didn't know what she expected him to say, but it certainly wasn't that.

She glanced at the items that they left on the enchanter and cleared her throat. “So, I take the soul gem and the staff. Then, I get touched–”

Neloth took his place behind her again. “I shall keep a respectable distance; we must complete the lesson. Take the gem and place it in the receptacle. The staff goes over top. Now; what basic enchantments do you know?”

“Fire damage. A bit of frost and shock, but I know fire the best.”

“Figures,” he grumbled. “Use fire, then.”

Neloth explained the process in detail, including why it was done the way it was done, and what happened to the core elements on the enchanter during the process. She followed along intently, quite certain that he wasn't in the habit of giving detailed lessons. While it took well over an hour to make sure she had it correct, her first attempt in staff enchanting resulted in a moderately powerful staff of fireball, capable of casting a modest amount of times before needing recharging. For an apprentice, it would have been an incredible staff.

To a Telvanni Master-Wizard, it was a mere stick. The pair shrugged it off and tossed it aside into a storage bin full of completed staves and weapons. As they made their way out of the enchanting room and into the tower proper, Mehra let out a small sigh. She was glad she got the enchantment correct the first time; messing it up would have been an embarrassment.

Neloth followed behind her, shutting the enchanting room door behind him.

“Tell me what you know about the dragons,” he said. “I assume this is a nuisance, yes?”

Mehra exhaled and nodded. “It's bad.”

Neloth ushered her over to the table at which they sat earlier, pulled a chair out for her, and waited for her to sit before taking a seat. “Define 'bad',” he said.

“I helped a Blades agent escape from the Thalmor. He's been researching into the dragons. Seems a bit crazy, but I know enough of crazy to know what's a stroke of genius and what is truly mad.”

Erich certainly would have known about Esbern if he were insane, and Mehra liked to think that he would have told her anything he could to help her on her journey. She knew the value of a promise from Erich Heartfire, but wasn't sure about a promise from Erich the Mad.

“Therana?” Neloth scoffed.

Mehra nodded. This was true as well. Esbern was nothing like Therana had been.

“According to this Blade,” she continued, “Alduin, the World-Eater has returned to bring the end of the world. He will devour the souls of the living and the dead, and none can escape.”

Neloth stroked his beard in thought. “What have you confirmed of this?”

“I presumably saw Alduin twice,” Mehra replied. “He destroyed Helgen by himself. I also saw him resurrect a dragon in Kynesgrove.”

“Resurrect? Fascinating.”

“I don't know what he was saying,” she said. “It worked like my soul absorption did, but in reverse. And it didn't look a thing like summoning undead; this dragon was alive again. I'm almost certain it was a shout.”

“If you don't figure out that shout,” Neloth mused, “then it would be such a wasted opportunity.”

Mehra shrugged. “I mean, who would I want to resurrect anyway?”

“True. Now, anything else?”

“Esbern is looking for the location of the old Blades hall that housed the Wall of Alduin that prophesied Alduin's return. There might be more answers there. He will send word to me when he does.”

“Tedious,” he scoffed.

Mehra rolled her eyes and nodded. “Couldn't stand waiting around, that's for sure. So, I decided to come here. I suppose I'm worthy, now?”

Neloth crossed his arms. Slowly, he stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. He regarded her for a moment then gave a short chuckle.

“You might say that,” he said.

She gave him a short nod. That was all she was going to get from him, but it was more than enough. The only person Neloth held in high regard was himself.

“Neloth,” Mehra said, “nobody can know about Alduin. I can’t imagine the panic that would happen if people knew.”

“You act as if I speak with commoners,” he replied.

This was true. Who would he tell, anyway?

Well, now that she had an enchanting lesson, she figured she ought to do something else that could interest them both. Mehra stood, stepped forward, and swung her legs over his lap to straddle him. Enough talk.

“Well, alright then,” Neloth chuckled. “Lesson two?”

Mehra chuckled. “Maybe I'll teach you something.”

He grabbed her hips and smirked. “You know how old I am. I doubt that you will, but you are certainly welcome to try.”

While he was right, she certainly was going to do her damnedest.

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

A/n: This chapter is somewhat NSFW for some adult themes.

 

* * *

 

 

_Today you wake up, full of energy and ideas, and you know, somehow, that overnight everything has changed. What a difference a day makes._

 

* * *

 

The whole thing was unexpected, really.

Neloth had intentions toward Mehra from the moment she stepped foot into his tower wearing the bones and scales of slain dragons as armor. While her appearance was downright barbaric and unfitting of a lady of House Telvanni, the dragon parts themselves spoke of great status and power. It was a good choice for a Dunmer woman embroiled in the affairs of the Northern Barbarians. She was politically shrewd, at the very least.

Her gift of the dragonbone staff most certainly signified that she wanted something in return from him, and Neloth opted for an enchanting lesson. If anyone was to teach her, it ought to be him rather than whatever idiot at Winterhold was teaching a course.

As their 'lesson' progressed, she gave him an open invitation to take more than a mere lock of hair. Apparently, the woman was as direct with intimate matters as she was with the rest of her life. It was just as well; Neloth was equally direct.

Behind him, sheets rustled. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the Nerevarine stretch in his bed and yawn, her dark, scarred skin reminding him of raw onyx. She was still a bit bony, yes, but he much preferred a bit of thinness over the mannish hair and scowl she wore back in the Third Era. The worst part of her costume had to have been the dremora face paint – dumb kid.

As far as partners went, she was above average. She didn't complain, didn't try to goad him into doing anything that wasn't his idea, and was gods-defyingly tight. She was a bit loud, however, but he was charitable enough to excuse it on account that it had been so long since she last experienced such things.

At least she kept her mouth away from his ears when she decided to be loud.

Outside of that, there were the unattractive corprus scars in clusters on her body, the most notable of which covered a hand-sized portion on her inner right thigh. These scars, however, did attest that she truly was the sole survivor of the disease. Perhaps, he ought to get a skin and blood sample from her as well, and maybe, some toenail clippings for research purposes. Corprus samples were difficult to come by, and if they were found, the samples were deteriorated. Yes, the hair wasn't enough. Mehra was a rare, one-of-a-kind woman.

She had great power for someone so young. All things considered, he supposed she was quite lovely in comparison to the common rabble. If he were a man who believed in fortune instead of self-determination, he would have considered the entire thing quite fortuitous. She was direct, discreet, and a woman of status – perfect for having and keeping an affair.

Neloth watched as Mehra stretched again, this time on all fours in a ridiculous attempt at seducing him. Next, she would be asking him to come back to bed. Pity when they played games such as this; all she had to do was ask.

Instead, Mehra knelt then slid off the bed, her preposterously long hair swinging behind her. Naked and unashamed, the woman remade the bed, then padded around the tower to retrieve her clothing. Each item went back on without preamble until she stood before him, clothed.

Neloth glanced at the potion he prepared. They were a bit foolish last night – practically gluttonous, if he were honest. The potion would ensure that the multiple mistakes they made wouldn't cause any complications. Neloth had enough of complications –reassuring lies from Ildari as to her efforts to not conceive– to last a long time. He grabbed the bottle and handed it to Mehra.

“Drink this.”

Mehra blinked and stared at him, completely clueless. “Good morning to you, too,” she drawled. “What's this?”

“Pregnancy cancellation,” he scowled. “Now drink it.” Clueless girl.

Conceiving wasn't in his best interest, nor hers, given her duties.

“No worries,” she smiled. “I'm barren.” She placed the potion back on the table.

Oh. Interesting. Perhaps this was something from Azura? Perhaps, some sort of dual-gender conundrum? Or maybe, Akatosh had something to do with it, given that she was Dragonborn. Maybe it was better that she drink it, just in case. Neloth grabbed the potion and handed it back to her.

“Take no chances,” he said.

“I haven't cycled in nearly seventy years,” she laughed. “Besides, what will this do to a barren woman?”

Would it then make her fertile? Neloth had no clue, and wasn't curious in the least, not when it involved him personally. But the theory would be interesting. Maybe, Talvas could lie with a barren –

Foolish idea. The Council would bar him if he experimented in such a way. Then again, the Council could potentially bar him from engaging in relations with another Master. It wouldn't matter that she disappeared for two hundred years.

Well, the Telvanni way was to have secrets first, and follow the rules second. And if the Council found out about it, then they could take their sanctions and–

“Neloth?”

He snapped out of his thoughts quickly.

“I don't know what it would do,” he admitted. “You should take it with you, just in case you experience symptoms.”

Mehra shrugged and tucked the bottle in to her pack.

“You're young looking,” Neloth frowned. “Are you certain you cannot become pregnant?”

She turned around with a sigh. “I don't know how it works. It just stopped around the time it would have stopped if I aged. When the female Wizards gain their youth back, do they regain fertility as well?”

“Do I look like a woman to you?” he deadpanned.

Mehra screwed her eyes shut and laughed. Smirking, she sashayed her bony hips toward him. It would have looked ridiculous, were it not for the knowledge of what she was capable of doing with that tiny body.

How in the world was she making him feel amorous again?

“You know,” she purred, “after last night, I have no doubt –”

The front door opened and Mehra jumped back. It appeared that Talvas and Varona were back from their excursion.

“Master!” Talvas called. “We have more canis root.”

Tea? They were interrupting this over tea? Who could think of tea at a time like this?

Neloth glanced at the visibly annoyed woman at his side and figured that perhaps, some tea would be good after all. It was calming, and he needed it to deal with this lot.

“I suffer this kind of thing on a daily basis,” he hissed, jerking his head in the direction of the levitation portal. “Constant interruptions. Constant questions.”

If cleaning, cooking and preparing tea wasn't such a bother – and beneath him – then he'd kick the lot of them out and enjoy a solitary life.

Mehra took a deep breath, sighed, and trudged her way over to the main table. She sat down with a wince, making Neloth smirk. He caused that.

Talvas and Varona drifted up the portal, then landed on the other side. As the steward set about putting various items from the bags they brought where they belonged, Talvas gave him a quick greeting. He then turned toward the Nerevarine.

“How did your lesson go?” he asked.

The cheeky thing squirmed in her seat. She did her best to show him some new tricks – and Neloth was somewhat impressed – but he was far too old and far too experienced for her to have shown him anything new.

“Good!” Mehra replied. “It was thorough. Very thorough.”

Neloth smirked. Of course he was thorough; he wasn't a savage, and knew exactly how to please a woman, unlike the barbarians of Skyrim she would likely encounter next.

It was a pity, really. Undoubtedly, she'd want to return, yes?

Hm.

Neloth pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes as he stared down at the floor. That was assuming that he wanted her to return. Given that she had status, power, and most importantly, what appeared to be discretion, he certainly could invite her return.

“You're headed out, then?” Talvas asked.

Neloth looked up to see her making a move for her armor.

“I am,” she sighed. “I do have to get back. Winterhold will wonder if I died, and let's just say that there's something going on there that might involve a Thalmor adviser – and I use the word 'adviser' very loosely – that might need my attention.”

Varona brought pieces of armor over to lay on the table. “With all due respect madam,” she said, “you do not have to care for everyone's problems. Only the big ones that won't handle themselves.”

“I don't think this is going to handle itself,” Mehra sighed. “The guy wears full Justicar-Inquisitor gear and he's looking for something.”

She leaned over to admire the plain dagger on the table, and Neloth had the impression that she had half the mind to assassinate the Thalmor outright with the deceptively heavily enchanted blade. He wondered where she acquired it.

As she continued to strap her armor on, Neloth approached the table and nodded toward the sheathed blade. “Fascinating enchantments on that dagger,” he said. “May I?”

Mehra glanced up and met his gaze. Apparently, asking permission meant a lot to her, though if he were honest, Neloth would have likely grabbed the blade without a second thought.

“Of course,” she replied, then continued to fasten her armor.

He reached out and grabbed the blade.

What in Magnus' name?

Neloth frowned as the dagger's enchantment disappeared at his touch. Letting go, he watched as the magic seeped back into the weapon at the absence of his hand.

“What is it, Master?” Talvas asked. “It looks like a normal blade to me.”

He waved a dismissive hand at his apprentice. Slowly, he reached out and grabbed the blade. Once again, the enchantment disappeared.

“Yeah, I didn't know it did that,” Mehra awed. “It belonged to a friend. Killed someone and took it from them, then when my friend saw me with it, he let me have it.”

Neloth examined it closer. The blade itself appeared to be of severely tarnished silver.

“Not tarnished,” he murmured, “that's ebony. Clever.”

Shaking his head, he sheathed the blade then nodded at Talvas. “You touch it. Tell me if you feel anything. I shall watch.”

Talvas stepped forward and Mehra backed away to make room for the apprentice. With a shrug, he grabbed the dagger and drew it from its sheath.

“Nothing, Master,” he remarked.

Neloth nodded. He saw the enchantment leave the dagger, the same as it did with him.

“The blade must have a bond to its wielder,” he said. “At least, that's the most likely theory.”

Mehra shrugged and took the blade from Talvas. As soon as her hand touched its hilt, the dagger's enchantments grew in strength.

“And that is more evidence,” Neloth said. “I wonder who created such a thing.”

The woman cleared her throat and fastened the dagger to her side. “Probably an other-worldly being if I had a guess,” she offered.

Neloth crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. Of course, it was a dangerous artifact of a presumably dangerous origin. Truthfully, the plain steel sword she carried, well-made though it was, was quite surprising to him. He expected items more like the dagger or the ludicrous dragon armor she wore.

She took the dragon skull helm from the table and strapped it to her head. “Well, I suppose I'm off now,” Mehra announced. “Thank you for the hospitality of your lesson, Neloth.”

He cleared his throat. Did she seriously just thank him for having sex with her? Or was it the actual enchanting lesson? Or, was it both?

Neloth nearly found himself at a loss for words. Nearly.

“Come back sometime,” he said. “I can teach you many things. You'll certainly find a touch of class here that you won't find in Skyrim.”

She bit her lip and gave him a maddeningly beautiful smile. “I'd like that.”

And he meant it; a young barbarian would be all thumbs with a powerful Telvanni woman. He, on the other hand, could handle her quite well. Mehra was the ravenous sort, but he supposed that as she settled in to her own from her time in prison, she'd level out.

Thankfully, she didn't resemble Ildari in the least; that girl was seven shades of nasty and ungrateful. Mehra had no aspirations for power, and she could announce herself to the Houses and regain her status at any time. In fact, had she wanted it, she could announce herself as Dragonborn at the Temple of the One, stage a coup, and become ruler of the Empire. Such things seemed so unlike her, now.

The measure of power she could gain from bearing a child from him would be paltry in comparison. Neloth found himself believing her admission of barrenness. Perhaps this would work out well for the both of them, then.

Of course, to keep up with the ruse, Neloth realized he would have to give occasional lessons to Talvas as well.

He watched the sway of her hips as she walked toward the levitation portal and concluded that, yes, it was quite worth it.

Mehra said her goodbyes and left the tower as suddenly as she'd arrived the day before. With that over with, Neloth turned back toward his work. Minutes passed as he thumbed through a worn book, searching for clues as to how one could create a user-specific enchantment such as the one on the dagger.

Generally, such things required blood, both from the enchanter and the user. Even then, the results could be shoddy; relatives could be capable of using the enchanted item. It was one reason that he never bothered much with user enchantments. He supposed, however, that if an item were a gift –

A knock sounded at the front door, causing him to jerk his head up from the book.

“Varona, get that, would you?” he mumbled, before turning back to his book once again.

“Master, are you alright?” Varona asked. “You just asked me to get the door.”

Neloth narrowed his eyes. “And now I am telling you: get the door, Varona.” His tone lacked its usual bite, but Varona worked for him long enough to know that a request from him was merely an order in civilized trappings.

“Of course, Master,” she replied. “I planned on it at the beginning. I was merely curious.”

He waved his hand in the air, and he heard her light footsteps patter over to the portal, then across the foyer seconds later. Depending on who it was, Varona would have an answer ready to send them on their way. It was a useful part of her skill set.

Sure enough, the front door closed within seconds, and his steward made her way back up to the top. Much to his irritation, she crossed the tower to stand in front of his desk.

Neloth sighed deeply. He just wanted to be left alone. Was that too much to ask?

He glanced up at Varona and frowned. She looked off.

“Someone to see you, Master,” she intoned.

He peered at her through narrowed eyes. Daedric influence, perhaps? Either that, or the damned standing stone outside his tower decided to start picking off his people, too.

“Who?” he asked.

“Some gentleman with a cane,” Varona replied. “No name given.”

Neloth glanced up to see Talvas staring at Varona with wide eyes. Exhaling deeply, he gave his apprentice a hard look.

Talvas nodded slowly. “Varona,” he said, “how about some tea?”

“Someone to see you, Master,” she repeated.

Well, that was certainly abnormal. “Alright,” Neloth sighed, “alright. I'm going.”

He stood, made his way down to the bottom floor, and steeled himself in front of the door. Whatever was influencing Varona was not welcome in his house, and it dared to manipulate one of his own servants. It could have just asked to see him.

Then again, asking didn't mean a damned thing when it came to him. Even Neloth admitted that he was not one to comply to requests.

Neloth threw the door open and stepped outside, confused at what he saw. He wasn't certain what he expected, but whatever it was, it certainly wasn't a male Nord. They tended to avoid his tower out of superstition alone. At least he could give the courtesy of showing his face rather than his back.

The man turned around and it all quickly made sense. White hair, eerie eyes, claws: yes, this wasn't a mere mortal.

“She's beautiful, isn't she?” the Nord asked.

“And who might you be?” Neloth asked, noting the man's slitted pupils. 'She' who? He couldn't be referring to Elynea or Varona, so that only left one possible woman he'd seen recently.

The man – creature– grinned and pointed down the road toward Raven Rock. “Her ex.”

Neloth cleared his throat. Of course, she'd have a dangerous former lover. He wanted nothing to do with this – not if it involved a rivalry with a daedra. But, what manner of daedra was this, anyhow? Neloth had never seen anything quite like it.

“You must have a name,” Neloth frowned.

“Erm,” the demon replied, “It's uh –”

Neloth waited, forcing himself to act patient. He didn't know what he was dealing with.

“It's Erich,” he concluded. “Or, um, Sheogorath. Whichever.”

He closed his eyes and sighed deeply. How was he going to dodge death this time? Neloth awaited a death blow, but it never came. He opened his eyes and slid them over to the fidgeting Madgod.

“I imagine that it's difficult to be immortal while in a mortal coil,” the daedra said.

It was impossible for one to be immortal and mortal at the same time. Unless, he referred to Mehra's inability to age, perhaps. Still, in light of the revelation of whom he spoke to, it was best to not make assumptions.

“I don't follow.”

“I'm just saying,” the Madgod said, “it must get very lonely, inside her skin.”

Sheogorath paused with his mouth open and blinked.

“Make sure you fuck her good and hard every once in a while,” he concluded. “I won't mind. Her soul doesn't belong to me anyway, so I won't be a poor sport.”

“You're not going to kill me over this, then?” Neloth asked, wary of the Madgod's crude instruction.

The daedra grinned and shook his head. “Nah,” he shrugged, “Unless you'd like me to kill you. Though that would be a strange request!”

“I would prefer to stay alive,” Neloth replied.

“Figured so,” he chuckled, summoning a staff in his hand. Neloth wondered how in the world Mehra had connections with Sheogorath, of all creatures.

The daedra made a move to cast a simple recall spell, but thought better of it. Lowering his hand, he turned to level Neloth with a stare.

“By the way,” Sheogorath said, “You'll want to be careful with those Black Books. That is, unless you want to be friends.”

“Noted.”

The daedra gave him a wink, then disappeared with the quick casting of a spell.

Neloth stared at the space Sheogorath once occupied. In all his years, that had to have been one of the strangest encounters he'd ever had.

A Daedra Lord decided to stop by his tower to give him permission to conduct an affair that he had already begun to conduct.

He fought the urge to groan out loud. He'd done nothing to deserve such meddling.

 

* * *

 

Winterhold didn't take well to her new armor. She had many questions about it – including meddlesome ones from Ancano that she half-answered enough to get him to leave her alone. Mehra had a lot on her mind. In particular, her thoughts drifted back to Solstheim.

She still couldn't believe that she did it. Not that she regretted it in the least; Neloth showed her a good time – perhaps some of the best sex of her life, but the details on her previous encounters centuries prior were a bit hazy. Two hundred years in prison dulled the memories.

Mehra never thought that the body of a three thousand year old nobleman would be remotely interesting, but Neloth's told a fascinating tale. There were scars and burn marks and a gash on his stomach that had a matching exit out the back, undoubtedly the mark of a spear.

When he lost the expensive trappings of a wizard's robe, Neloth looked like a commoner– more easily mistaken for a grizzled veteran spearman than the powerful wizard he was. He was long and lean, and the scars across his skin spoke of multiple lifetimes of experience.

It surprised her initially, but Mehra thought about it and figured that it was to be expected, given the thousands of years that he lived. Nobody could live that long without being beaten up a bit, especially not someone so prominent.

Not once did he make comment on her own scarred body. It was simply who they were: old and scarred from many, many years on Mundus.

Mehra sighed as she opened the door to the Hall of Attainment. She had an invitation to return to Neloth's tower, and she intended to take advantage of it when she needed some downtime.

She crossed the central room and entered her quarters in order to find her textbook for her next bit of assigned reading. Mehra was quite certain that she remembered enough about destruction magic that she could teach the class herself, but as it was, she at least had to read the book and answer questions according to how the book would have addressed them. At least the hall was empty; she could sit in her room and read undisturbed.

Mehra threw open the chest at the foot of the bed. Hm. It wasn't there. Unless it was over in the –

“What in the world are you wearing?”

She looked up to see Brelyna standing in the doorway to her quarters, her eyes wide. Well, there was one other person here. She liked Brelyna; she kept to herself and didn't as too many strange questions. The question of her armor, however, was to be expected.

“Dragon armor,” she replied.

The apprentice crossed her arms and peered at it. “Yeah, I guess,” Brelyna said. “It's um, unique. Does it protect you well?”

Mehra shrugged. “Given how tough a dragon is, I suppose it has to.”

“I'll give you that one,” she replied. “Looking for something?”

“Apparently my Intermediate Destruction book decided to wander off,” Mehra drawled. She motioned toward a nearby chair to invite her classmate in to sit if she wanted to.

Brelyna glanced at the chair and decided to sit. “How was your trip?” she asked.

Mehra sighed as she opened a dresser on the far wall of the room and searched through the doors. What was she to say about it?

She glanced down, saw the book at the back of the top drawer of the dresser, and breathed a sigh of relief. At least she had her book.

“Well, when I was in Windhelm,” Mehra frowned, “I had a guy tell me that I looked like I belong in Oblivion. Said they don't have a 'Black Quarter' there.”

“Oh my God,” she hissed, “Why were you even in that horrible place?”

Mehra snorted. “The only reason to be in Windhelm is to leave. I was going to Solstheim. Got laid there, so I think the experience evened out in a way.”

Brelyna didn't seem to know how to process this information. “Was it – was it good?”

Mehra nodded and smiled.

“Was he?” Brelyna made motions with her hands, indicating something large.

She pursed her lips. “He was thick,” she concluded. “Honestly, he really knew what he was doing with what he had. Lucky does not even begin to describe it.”

Brelyna nodded, her eyes wide. “I imagine he was very handsome.”

“I suppose,” she said, “in a classical, First Era sense.” Because Neloth likely was from the First Era.

“How so?”

“You know,” Mehra shrugged, “the kind of Dunmer man you'd imagine that lived back then.”

“Young and dashing like Nerevar?” Brelyna asked, her smile growing by the second.

It occurred to her in that second that she never had anyone to talk about things like this with. She supposed that this was what people did when they knew each other. Odd that it had taken her centuries of life in order to form a relationship with someone who would want to actually know the details of her trip and what she did.

Mehra didn't have the heart to tell Brelyna that Nerevar was a generation older than the Tribunal, and by the time he became warlord of the Chimeri people, he wasn't young and dashing. Instead, she tried to think of how she could best describe the enigma that was Neloth.

“He's abrupt and intimidating,” Mehra replied. “Not dashing in the least, but occasionally, he shows a little bit of warmth.”

Brelyna pursed her lips in thought. “So, what attracted you to him, then?”

Loneliness. Power – that he likely forgot more things than she ever learned. A desire to play with fire and a curiosity to find out more about Neloth. Mehra swallowed. Maybe she ought to have found an anonymous man in a tavern.

“A lot of things,” she shrugged. “He was a much older man. I know I could go for someone younger and all, but there's something to be said about the self-discipline of someone older, you know?”

“I have no clue,” Brelyna admitted. “At all. I'm a virgin. Please, don't laugh at me. I'm only twenty.”

Oh. No wonder she was so curious.

“I'm not going to patronize you,” Mehra said. “Your choices are to be respected.”

Brelyna had decades, if not centuries due to her study of magic, to do such things. There was no reason for her to be in a rush if she felt like she wasn't ready.

The apprentice squirmed in her seat. “It's not my choice,” she sighed. “Please, don't tell anyone this, but my family is House Telvanni. I'm going to end up in an arranged marriage when my parents find the right match within our House. I've accepted that as my fate.”

Mehra nodded slowly. She suspected it, but never said anything; she didn't know who knew about Brelyna being from House Telvanni, and wasn't about to cause trouble by asking her.

“A little advice, then,” Mehra said. “If you're an average woman, then an average man will work out just fine for you. Don't even worry about size.”

“That's,” Brelyna sighed, “comforting. I'll be lucky to meet my husband before the day of my wedding. I don't know where you're from, but in Morrowind, these kinds of things are common among nobility. I don't like to admit it, but being out of the country for a while has made me think about it a bit.”

Mehra nodded slowly. She could tell her that love wasn't worth it, in her experience, but the reason why her relationship with Erich never went anywhere was solely her fault. And besides that, she heard many stories of people in arranged marriages ending up in love as well. As long as Brelyna was fine with it – and truly fine with it – then Mehra wasn't about to tell her what to do.

“How old are we talking, anyway?” Brelyna asked, changing the subject quickly.

“I don't know,” she admitted. “He was a wizard, so it's impossible to tell. He looks to be around one hundred.”

Mehra knew full well that he was thousands of years old. But he did look to be the perfect age; she always liked the look of a man with gray-streaked hair. Erich was the rare exception that she made for a man her own age.

“Oh, a wizard?”

“Bent me over an enchanter and had his way with me,” Mehra grinned.

“Oh, my!” Brelyna put her hands over her mouth to hide a smile, her face flushing a deep purple.

“And his workbench,” Mehra said, “and his other enchanter, and another enchanter. We made it to the bed eventually.”

By Azura, she still couldn't believe Neloth had it in him. She didn't think anyone suspected it of him.

Brelyna went silent, her eyes wide.

“If you're uncomfortable, I'll stop talking right now,” Mehra said. She clearly went too far.

The apprentice shook her head and cleared her throat. Frowning, Mehra turned around to see Ancano in the doorway.

“Came for story time?” she drawled. “I can continue where I left off, if you'd like.”

“Loose women like you are the reason why mer-women are harassed in the streets,” he scowled.

Mehra tossed her book aside. “What would you know a god-damned thing about street harassment?” she spat.

Damn kid. She'd fistfight him right there, college rules be damned. Mehra stood and returned his ugly look. Clenching her jaw, she stomped forward and –

“Ancano, do not harass my students.”

Mehra deflated and glanced back at the wide-eyed Brelyna, then back toward the Archmage.

“She is free to do as she wishes,” Master Aren said, “so long as it doesn't violate College policy on the profane and dangerous. Make another comment like that to one of my students and I will personally throw you out.”

Ancano left without a word. Master Aren sighed and shook his head. “Your voices were carrying, ladies,” he said. “If you'd like a private conversation, I suggest the Arcanaeum or outside in the courtyard where your privacy will be respected.”

“How much of that did you hear?” Mehra mumbled.

“Everything,” the Archmage sighed. “If anyone gives you trouble over it, please tell me. We do not tolerate harassment of any kind here.”

With that, he left them to attend to his business. Mehra turned toward the direction of Ancano's quarters, narrowed her eyes, and sent him an obscene gesture through the stone wall.

“Maybe we should go to the Arcaneum,” Brelyna suggested. “We can study together.”

Mehra sighed and nodded in agreement. After the confrontation with Ancano, she figured she'd better disappear for a while.

She'd leave for Whiterun in the next few days, and hopefully, things would die down a bit when she returned.

 

* * *

 

 

Solitude grew like a vine, slowly creeping down the steep slope that led up to the coastal cliff on which the old section of the city sat for thousands of years. Streets and alleyways twisted in and out of each other haphazardly, each leading toward the blue jewel of a palace that stood across a natural bridge of rock on a cliff opposite the city. Buildings sat at uneven levels to their neighbors. Jagged boulders sprouted up from lawns, in the middle of large roads – an excuse to decorate around them – and against the sides of buildings.

Of all the mortal cities, this was his. It reminded him of New Sheoth, and interesting things always happened there.

It was fitting, then, that he conducted this particular transition within Solitude. The old, vibrant city might bring him luck.

Sheogorath saw the mortal he met at the Thalmor embassy pacing and staring at the ground off to the side of the entrance of the city. When the man looked up, he gave him a bright smile and a wave. The mortal returned the gesture and moved to meet him to the side of the city's main street.

What was the guy's name, again?

“Hey man,” the mortal greeted, “I got thrown out of that party, but it was definitely worth it. Got to call the Ambassador a bitch and everything.”

Sheogorath laughed and shook the man's hand. The quick contact of their hands reminded him that the Redguard called himself Razelan.

“It's a good thing I got kicked out, too,” he laughed. “Some shit happened there as soon as I got the boot. And good thing that you and your lady friend left when you did, too. Heard someone infiltrated and attacked the place.”

Sheogorath feigned surprise and swore.

“I know! Insane, isn't it?” Razelan said.

“Totally insane,” he laughed. “Someone would have to be completely nuts to break into that place.”

“Exactly,” the mortal agreed. “Place is locked up tighter than a nun's knickers.”

Sheogorath felt him before he saw him. Sanguine was here, waiting to see what he wanted. His eyes scanned the crowd to land on a man lounging off to the side on the opposite end of the street.

“There's our guy,” he said. “I'll bring him over here then we can get going.”

“Sounds good.”

He watched as mortals, male and female alike, turned their heads to stare at the Prince of Debauchery sitting sloppily – legs spread wide, arm leaned against the city wall, the other arm resting across his lap – on a nearby stone ledge. When he caught sight of Sheogorath approaching, he straightened up, closed his legs, and hopped off of the ledge.

He looked strange, compressed as he was in the form of a Breton man. Sanguine barely came up to his chest; he was shorter than Mehra, at any rate. His choice of attire: Black breeches with knee-height boots, and a plain black tunic left open at the chest. Sparse silver accessories rounded the ensemble out – a large, silver ring in the shape of a rose, and a small, silver hoop in each ear.

Really, he was dressed for a bar at night. He stuck out in broad daylight, and Sheogorath supposed that was the entire point.

He had the same glossy, tousled black hair of his natural form. But what was so different was the pale skin, reddened nose – of course he'd been drinking – and deep, red-brown eyes framed by dark brows.

He could write songs about those beautiful brown eyes. Why was it that brown eyes weren't immortalized in song? These were extraordinary. If they didn't belong to Sanguine, he'd want them in a jar by his bedside so he could keep them for himself.

“Hello there,” Sanguine said, a cocky smirk on his face.

“You're looking lovely today,” Sheogorath smiled. “I mean, you're always wonderful, but particularly lovely today.”

Sanguine's pale cheeks flushed, something he would have missed had he been in his normal form. “Feeling well today, then?” Sanguine asked.

“Blissed, my brother,” Sheogorath replied. His murder spree with Mehra gave his demented side a bit of a rest. He was quite content now, and his mind turned toward the lighter side of insanity.

Sheogorath ran a hand through his hair and stopped when it hit a snag. What in Pelagius' crazy name?

Oh. He was wearing a braid. Yes.

He cleared his throat and gave Sanguine a sheepish smile. “Anyway, I met this fellow at a party. Likes to drink and have a fun time. Figured you'd have a lot in common.”

He motioned for Sanguine to follow him to meet the mortal, chastising himself for being so smitten by his appearance. Fumbling was not how he introduced himself, especially not to someone he knew already.

But it was too late to make a second first impression. They made their way over to the drunk and stopped in front of him.

“Gentlemen,” Sheogorath said, “I hope this is the beginning of a great friendship.”

The mortal stepped forward and offered his hand. “Razelan,” he said. “East Empire Company. That Thalmor party was as boring as hell and they even cut me off. Your buddy here got me some of the good stuff. He's a solid guy.”

Sanguine peered up at Sheogorath and smiled. “He sure is. Name's Sam. You drink much?”

“Sober's just another dirty word,” he replied. “Now I hear you're good at picking up women? Not that I have any problems, but I'm always into getting tips.”

Sanguine laughed. “Whatever your vice is, I've got it covered. If you're having fun, what does it matter to anyone else?”

“Exactly!” Razelan said. “Man, you're right on. Let's get some drinks. First round's on me and the East Empire Company.

Sheogorath motioned to the street and gave the mortal a smile. “Lead on, then. I'm sure you know the right place. I haven't been to this city in a while, so I'm sure you know better than I would.”

Razelan nodded and began to lead them through Solitude. He spoke of the different taverns throughout the city as they passed them, ranking them on their service, women that frequented the area, and most importantly, their selection.

Sanguine glanced over at Erich and stepped closer with a small frown on his face.

“I like this one,” he admitted. “What's the wager? What's your game this time, Mad Star?”

Sheogorath stared into his eyes and shook his head. “Could write a sonnet about them, really,” he mumbled as he forced himself to look away.

“The catch?”

He shook his head. “No catch. Saw him and thought of you right away.”

Sanguine's eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Really?”

“Really.”

“I'm touched,” he said. “You thought of me.”

They stopped in front of a tavern in the far corner of Solitude. Without being prompted, Razelan offered to go inside to get them a spot close to the bar.

Sanguine tugged Erich back into a secluded awning in front of the tavern.

“Now that he's gone,” Sanguine murmured, “I need you to tell me why.”

Already, Razelan was under their influence; Sanguine wanted a private word and was able to have the mortal leave them at his whim. It was an excellent match, really. Sheogorath knew it from the moment he saw the drunk at the Thalmor party. Sanguine would have a mortal thrall in no time. It was one mortal, yes. But giving a mortal that he could have claimed to another Daedric Lord was the stuff of alliances.

“You said hello,” he shrugged, “and I quite like you, now that I think I understand your intentions.”

There. He was getting somewhere with that, he hoped.

Sanguine tilted his head to the side and smirked, black hair falling in front of his eyes. He turned his gaze to the city and seemed to think about something for a moment, before turning back to scowl at him. Roughly, he pushed his hair out of his eyes.

“Quit acting cute,” he hissed. “You damn well know how intimate this gift is.”

“Maybe I want to be intimate,” Sheogorath admitted.

The gasp was well worth it. Sanguine backed up against the wall of the tavern, his face flushing. Quickly, he gathered his composure and cleared his throat. A red rose materialized in his hand. Sanguine stood on the tips of his toes and reached up to tuck the flower behind his ear.

“You're a wonderful thing,” he said. “Maybe I can do something for you? Let you flay me a bit? We'd both like that.”

Oh. Now that was a gift.

“Good,” Sheogorath said. “If you want gentle, you're not going to get it from me. Tore a mortal in half, once. They don't stay together well when you're ah, you know.”

Sanguine's face lit up in mirth and he covered his mouth to hold in chuckles. “Alright,” he laughed, “alright. So you fuck 'em in half. How about I train you a bit, then? I don't suppose any of those beautiful golden and purple ladies in your army would be interested in fun, would they?”

“Of course they are,” he replied. He had fun with them all the time; if he didn't, there'd be nobody left alive in New Sheoth to satisfy his appetite.

“Now,” Sheogorath said, “we've got a mortal to attend to. Let's enjoy your present, shall we?”

He wrapped his arm around Sanguine's shoulders and directed him toward the door of the bar. As he opened the door, he felt a hand grab a handful of his backside and heard a muted grumble about 'those haunches'.

The bar was dingy and poorly-lit, but it seemed clean enough. For the early time in the day, the place was sparsely populated; offhand, he saw a small handful of people occupying the place. In the corner, a pair of women in low-cut bodices sat, whispering to each other at the sight of the two newcomers to the building.

Razelan sat at the bar with a trio of drinks in front of him. It appeared that he waited for them to come before starting his drink.

Sanguine leaned in to Sheogorath's side. “Whores in the corner,” he murmured. “I can smell them without even looking. They're quite taken with us, you know; hard not to be, really, when we're like this.”

He chuckled as they approached the bar. “I'll let you have first pick,” Sanguine said. “Either them, or one of mine.”

Erich wasn't inclined for it at the moment, but if he had enough drinks, a change of mind could certainly happen. All it would take would be a Demented snap.

Razelan turned to them and gave them a big smile. “Got the first round already,” he said. “Figured it'd be something nice to start off, then we can switch to cheap stuff once our sense of taste goes to shit.”

Sanguine laughed and pulled up the barstool to the right of the mortal. Erich followed behind, taking up the remaining one to Sanguine's right.

Razelan handed their pints to them and raised his glass for a toast. “To getting hammered!” he laughed.

“To getting hammered, fine food, and a fine fuck!” Sanguine added. He raised his glass to clink it against the mortal's, then tapped Erich's glass.

Sure! He certainly could toast to that. “Rebstile edd trammis!” Sheogorath smiled.

Sanguine gave him an odd look before they raised their glasses to drink. Had he said something wrong? Gibberish again, perhaps? He downed his drink in unison with the others, savoring the taste of the native Nord ale. Daedric brew was, without a doubt, the strongest in existence. But the flavor of what he loved as a mortal couldn't be beat.

Razelan finished his drink last; that fact seemed to bother him. The mortal turned to Sanguine next to him and gave him a smirk. “How about a drinking contest, Sam?” he asked. He motioned toward Erich and quirked his brow. “I'm not foolish enough to challenge a huge Nord to a drinking contest, but you're welcome to keep pace, man.”

Erich laughed and wrapped his arm around Sanguine. “My pal Sam here is like a little sponge. He might be short, but I think you'll be shocked. I haven't challenged him, but he might be able to outdrink me.”

Sanguine gave the mortal a devilish grin. “Sure! I'll have a contest with you.”

“If I lose, I'm still getting hammered,” Razelan chuckled. He motioned toward the delighted barkeep, who quickly readied another set of drinks.

While the mortal was distracted, a devilish hand sneaked under the bar to caress Erich's thigh.

“Don't start something you don't intend to finish,” Erich warned, his voice low.

“Trust me,” Sanguine mumbled, “I'll finish you a dozen times over.”

His face flushed. Of course, Sanguine probably could keep up with him. “You're about to get drunk, though,” he replied. “Doesn't that make things difficult?”

Sanguine turned to him and blinked. “I'll let you use –”

“Got your drinks,” the barkeep interrupted, causing Sanguine to turn his full attention toward the alcohol in front of him.

Sighing, Erich took his pint in hand and raised it to clink glasses with the others. He gulped it down with ease; the next five went similarly until he felt the beginning of a bit of warmth spreading across his face.

The mortal on the left held his own admirably, but as he turned to speak to Sanguine, his words held a little bit of a slur.

With a grin, the bartender place another round of drinks in front of them.

“Having a contest, gentlemen?”

Erich swiveled in his seat to see that the prostitutes migrated to their area. The pair of the eyed both he and Sanguine hungrily; certainly, there was an unconscious inkling in the back of their minds that told them of their power.

“Sure are,” Sanguine grinned. “My Nord friend here is exempt; keeping up with him would be difficult because he's –”

He paused and gave him a once-over. “So huge,” Sanguine crooned.

The brunette – Breton, by her short stature and round face – grinned and latched on to Erich's arm. “Poor fella,” she sighed. “They're not letting you have any fun, just because you're so big. Don't worry; I like 'em big, honey.”

Her taller, Imperial companion turned toward Razelan and gave him a broad smile. “So, it's the Big East-Empire man in charge versus Mr. Dark-and-brooding?”

“Sure is,” the mortal chuckled. “Name's Razelan. Sam here is holding his own. I'd hate to see how much Erich can pack in.”

“A lot,” Erich laughed. “Let's leave it at that.”

The Breton giggled and snuggled into his side. Before he had a chance to stop himself, Erich had his arm wrapped around the woman's waist.

“I think Sam's got it,” she said.

The next round of drinks came by, and the Imperial woman shook her head. “Razelan looks like he'll win.” She gave the mortal a wink.

“Watch me do it!” Razelan crowed, before slamming his drink down.

Sanguine laughed, gulped down his ale, and put the empty glass back down on the bar. Another set of drinks came by, followed by another, followed by a few more. Erich drank each without protest, until he felt the stirrings of drunkenness.

He glanced over to see the mortal weaving in his seat and Sanguine sitting next to him with a lazy grin on his reddened face.

“I – I ain't quitting,” the mortal slurred. He leaned forward, his eyes rolling in their sockets.

Erich laughed. He certainly didn't seem inclined to quit. In fact, it seemed more likely that –

Razelan passed out cold onto the bar with a thud, confirming Sheogorath's suspicions.

Sanguine flashed him a brilliant smile. “This is how we get 'em,” he said. “Should probably take him home, right?”

Sheogorath chuckled. 'Home' it was, then?

The whores on either side of them pouted.

“I know,” Sanguine sighed, “I know, ladies. Honestly, I came here for one today. Say a prayer on Heart's Day, and I might come for you.” He pulled a pair of long-stemmed roses from his sleeve and handed one to each of the astounded women. Next, Sanguine cut loose the coinpurse from his belt and dropped it on the bar in front of the shocked owner. From the sight of the large bag, Erich knew that it was more than enough for the drinks they had.

“A blessing for your wonderful tavern,” Sanguine said. “May you always serve sinners.”

With that, the pair stood. Erich took it upon himself to shoulder the swooning mortal – would look odd if the small Breton fella did it, he supposed – and followed Sanguine to the door.

Sanguine threw open the door and they stepped out into –

Well, he didn't quite know what this place was. It certainly wasn't Solitude.

Sheogorath followed Sanguine through a mist-covered forest of yellowing birch trees. The dirt path they took was well-worn and soft. A breeze stirred in the trees, and he inhaled deeply at the scent of damp earth and wet grass; they must have just missed a light rain.

It was early evening, here. The warm glow of fire in the distance and the sound of voices and clinking glasses signaled that they weren't alone.

The path took them toward a bridge lined with paper lanterns. Up ahead, lanterns and torchbugs dotted the trees. They crossed the damp bridge, and Erich glanced down at the glistening stream underneath.

“You like this one?” Sanguine chuckled. “I've got thousands of little pleasure pockets that I designed, each with a different little theme. I'm partial to autumn myself. Lovely colors. Cool weather is perfect for drinking and a nice fuck by the fire, eh, Heartfire?”

Erich chuckled and shifted the mortal on his back. “Yeah, I can get behind that. You're a good artist; the lanterns are a nice touch.”

“They look amazing when you're high,” Sanguine nodded. “I've got drugs here that have never hit the mortal plane. They can knock a daedra on their ass; I'll get you feeling good in no time.”

Razelan shifted and groaned. Sanguine ignored the mortal in favor of walking backward to stare Erich in the eyes. “I can also make you cum for five minutes straight,” he bragged, giving him a huge grin.

Erich cleared his throat and stared off toward the trees. “That sounds like torture,” he mumbled.

Sweet, wonderful torture.

“Where am I?”

Sheogorath glanced at the bewildered mortal then back toward the path. In front of them lay a rose petal-speckled clearing filled with blankets, floor cushions, and a large pack of mortals and daedra in various states of undress. They gorged themselves on food, drank, smoked, caroused, and fornicated in the glow of the lanterns and small fire pits that dotted the clearing. The scent was heady here; charred meats, exotic fruits, spiced wine, ale, skooma, sex, and the overwhelming scent of roses filled the clearing.

Each stopped what they were doing and turned to look at their Lord.

“Tonight, children,” Sanguine announced, “we have another to join our mortal flock. He was given to me as a sign of goodwill from our most-esteemed guest this evening.”

He motioned toward a pair of half-naked revelers who quickly stood and jogged forward to relieve Sheogorath of the drunken mortal.

Razelan leaned heavily on their arms as he stumbled with them toward a nearby cask of drink. He glanced around in horror at the daedric guests to the party. “Where the fuck am I?! Erich, what's going on, man?”

One of the revelers supporting him wrapped his arm around the terrified Redguard. “Welcome to the Eternal Party,” he smiled.

“Party?”

Sanguine held up his hand to silence the mortals. Without wasting a second, he summoned his Rose staff and tapped it on the ground to drop his Breton disguise. The mere sight of him made everyone present bow low, save Sheogorath and the stunned mortal. Sanguine turned toward the Redguard.

“I am Sanguine, mortal,” he laughed. “My friend saw your affinity for drink and saw it fit to bring you to me. You are mine, now.”

Razelan stared with wide eyes, but was silent. Part of the animal instincts he had likely instructed him to be quiet. Sanguine appeared pleased by this development.

“Now,” he continued, “I must announce my guest.”

Erich conjured his staff, his symbol of power and authority.

“We have a new era of goodwill,” Sanguine announced. “This is our brother, Sheogorath, Lord of the Shivering Isles, and Madgod.”

Sheogorath allowed his disguised appearance to fall and revealed himself to the mortals. They bowed low in reverence, even as the captured Razelan shrieked in fear.

Sanguine motioned toward a large pile of pillows. Erich followed him to lounge there and watch as the revelers continued their party. With a tankard of ale in his hand, Razelan seemed to settle in somewhat. A few sips of the potent drink had him stumbling about with his eyes rolling in their sockets.

Sheogorath regarded the mortal with a wistful smile. “He'll like it here in time, I think,” he said. “The adjustment can be difficult sometimes, but I really think it'll be good for him. The mortal plane doesn't understand him like you do.”

“You're right on that one,” Sanguine replied. “I suppose you have a unique perspective on it, having been one of them, once.”

A naked dremora woman walked up to them with pints of a green-hued drink. Bowing low, she handed the drinks to them. “Greetings, esteemed Lords,” she said. “Do you wish for a pipe, Master?”

Sanguine considered it for a moment, then shook his head. “Not tonight,” he replied. “We're going to keep things low-key.”

“Of course, Master,” she nodded. “If either of you desire anything, I shall fulfill your wish. You need only ask. Or, you may take; I love surprises.”

“I know you do,” Sanguine laughed. “Go on and have some fun.”

She left them to go join the party, Sanguine staring after her in mild interest. When she was out of hearing range, he sighed and watched as the party began in earnest.

“What a day,” he mused. “I've got a new mortal, and a new possible ally. Honestly, I had no clue that this would happen when I went to take a look at you.”

Sheogorath nodded in agreement. He hadn't any idea that they'd make any sort of connection after their little wager outside Windhelm.

“You left an impression,” he admitted. “Even before I was reborn as a god, there was a bit of a draw.”

To that end, he wasn't sure what would have happened if he hadn't stumbled into the Shivering Isles. Maybe, he would have become one of Sanguine's devotees, if only to save himself from the Void.

Sanguine took a sip of his drink then shook his head. “I felt it when the Rose switched to Martin's hands,” he said. “I was curious about why he held it, and why you allowed him to have it. The look of awe on your face when I gave it to you was, well, breathtaking.”

Erich stared down into his pint. Sanguine's Rose was a beautiful artifact.

“Then it was destroyed,” Sanguine said. “Burnt up to make your way to Mankar Camoran's little domain.”

“Uh, about that,” Sheogorath mumbled, “We needed –”

“I know what you needed,” he interrupted. “Being part of that, in its own way, was interesting. My Rose: used to help put Dagon in his damned place. Has a nice ring to it.”

He turned to Erich and stared him in the eyes.

“So,” he mumbled, “maybe you left an impression, too.” Sanguine raised his glass, signaling a toast.

“To leaving an impression,” he suggested.

Sheogorath raised his glass. “To leaving an impression,” he repeated, agreeing wholeheartedly with the sentiment, trite though it was.

They clinked glasses and drank. It wasn't an alliance like that of the restored Tribunal, but he'd take it for what it was.

 

* * *

 

 

She wasn't one to take stock in rumors, but Mirabelle had an inkling that what she heard about the newest apprentice was true. If she were honest with herself, she didn't want it to be true in the first place. If it were true that Mehra was a 'loose woman', then who knew who she'd go after next?

Mirabelle scowled and squashed the thought. Savos had eyes only for her, and besides; what the girl did with her body was her own business. Ancano's words to her were enough that she would have thrown him out, had she overheard them rather than Savos.

She sighed and wound her way up the stairs to the Arch Mage's quarters with a letter in hand. Truly, she cared for Savos, but Mirabelle wished that he'd take things more seriously. Ancano was a threat to College safety; he barged in on experiments in progress, stalked every class he could, harassed students, and when he wasn't doing that, he studied the orb by himself.

That damned orb; she didn't like it in the least and wanted it gone.

Mirabelle reached the top of the stairs and found Savos with a book, sitting in his favorite chair. He noticed her immediately.

“Any business, Mirabelle?” Savos asked. “Or, pleasure?” He eyed the letter in her hand in disappointment.

“If you put a door in,” she drawled, “maybe there could be pleasure.”

His eyes widened and he shut his book, completely losing his place in the process.

Mirabelle meant it; she wanted more. A door with a proper lock and a silence spell would make it happen, but it would be incredibly suspicious. She looked down at the note in her hands and sighed. It would never happen because it was forbidden. Their relationship was doomed.

“Letter here,” Mirabelle said. “From Wylandriah, Court Wizard of Riften. She wants to make an order. Figured I'd wait to open it until we could talk about it.”

Savos tossed the book aside and crossed the room to stop in front of her. “So, you're just going to change the subject like that?”

“Maybe it'll sort itself out,” she shrugged. Mirabelle stared into his eyes and waited.

Make a move, damn it. Step up. Do something.

Savos sighed deeply. “Maybe it will,” he replied. “I wish I knew.”

This again. She fought the urge to glare at him, broke the seal on the letter, and took a look at the note. What in Oblivion?

“What is it?” Savos asked.

“This is utter nonsense,” Mirabelle replied. “Penmanship is awful, sentences are poorly constructed and full of error and –”

She squinted at the page and re-read one of the lines. Surely this Wylandriah couldn't be serious.

“Apparently, she wants a sample of the Heart of Lorkhan.”

Savos laughed.

“Yeah, I know,” Mirabelle chuckled. “And a 'cloud emulsifier' that can magically manipulate the clouds. And apparently, something called 'greenmote'.

“Is there a way you can formulate a reply in such a way that will be courteous yet deter her from asking us for more things?” Savos asked. “Seems bothersome.”

Mirabelle folded the letter and put it in her satchel. “I'm sure I can think of something,” she replied.

“Thank you, Mirabelle.”

They stared at each other for a moment, until Mirabelle gave up waiting for him to say or do something substantial.

This was how it was going to be, then?

With a sigh, she turned around and made her way to the stairwell.

“I'm sorry, Mirabelle.”

She stopped in the archway that led downstairs.

“I am sorry too, Savos.” Mirabelle mumbled.

With nothing left to say, she took the stairs down, then crossed the hall to get to her quarters in the Hall of Attainment. Maybe, after she wrote her reply, she could go back up and show it to Savos. It wasn't as if he needed nor cared to know how she addressed Riften's clearly amateur court wizard, but it would at least be an excuse so she could see him. It was a silly notion, really. But given that they had to hide –

“You are quite often in the Arch-Mage's company, Master Ervine. Especially in his quarters.”

Mirabelle sucked in a breath and steeled herself. Ancano was the last person she wanted to talk to. Plastering on a fake smile, she turned to speak to him.

“Indeed I am,” she admitted. “In fact, it's almost as if I am second-in-charge around here. Odd how that works out.”

He didn't appear impressed. “Conveniently so,” Ancano snorted.

Mirabelle narrowed her eyes at him and clenched her jaw. “I do not presume to know what kind of female company you keep, Sir,” she spat, “but you ought not let those experiences color your perception of women around here. Say what you will about me, but you'd better stay away from the girls here, or we're going to have some trouble.”

“I don't care for your insinuation, madam,” he said, returning her look of contempt.

“Good,” Mirabelle smiled, “because I certainly do not care for yours. With that, I have a letter to write. College business; you'd know if you actually assisted the Arch-Mage as you claim to. Good day, sir.”

With that, she turned on her heel and made her way to her quarters. Mirabelle hadn't come this far to be pushed around by someone who didn't belong in the College in the first place.


	19. Chapter 19

_"Trust not the words of a poet, as he is born to seduce. Yet for poetry to seize the heart, it must ring with the chimes of truth." — Sotha Sil_

* * *

  
  


3E 427. Vivec.

 

This city was a segregated pain in the ass. The cantons were obnoxious, as were the irritatingly long bridges that connected them at ninety-degree angles only. As soon as Mehra learned how to levitate and water-walk, she didn't bother with walking across the maze of bridges and massive buildings that housed thousands of people like beavers in a dam.

At least Vivec City didn't stink like Seyda Neen. They couldn't offend the Poet-God's stolen heightened senses with shit-filled swamp water, after all.

She stood at the grand staircase that led up to the main bridge that led to Vivec. At the sight of her arrival, one of the Ordinators posted at the entrance jogged over to her, snapping a sharp salute as he stopped in front of her.

Well, that was certainly a change. Mehra almost ordered him to do it again, but thought better of it. She didn't have time for such nonsense.

“Lady Incarnate,” he said, “Our Lord has been locked up in his quarters since your most valiant and glorious defeat of Dagoth Ur. We grow concerned, Lady.”

Mehra drew Keening, tossed it into the air, and caught it by the handle. She stared out across the water toward the Temple Canton. It was excellent timing, really; she had plans for Vivec.

“You draw your blade, Lady,” the Ordinator observed, his underlying question hanging in the air:

Was she going to kill Vivec, too?

“Fret not,” she scoffed. “Although, if there were a writ–”

“Lady Nerevarine!” the Ordinator gasped.

Mehra cackled underneath her masked helm. The guard didn't share in her joke and she sighed.

“Look,” she said, “I'm sure he's just having a pity party about losing his godhood. I would, too. Thankfully, I'm not going anywhere for a long time, get me?”

The Ordinator saluted. “Please guide us and protect us, Incarnate.”

Mehra snorted and cast spells in preparation to make her way to the Temple. Surely, these people didn't want a twenty six year old street rat guiding them. She'd guide them, alright; their gold to her pockets, their knowledge to her mind, and their handsome men to her bed.

She wanted for years with only ragged clothes on her back, and barely enough food to sustain her body. Now, nothing was out of her grasp.

Her gaze landed across the water to the locked door that housed the once-god Vivec.

“I'm coming for you,” Mehra purred.

With a leap, she darted out across the water then landed on its surface, causing a large wave to splash back onto the shore. Mehra laughed as she heard the Ordinators curse in the distance; served the wet blankets right. Her magically enhanced speed took her across the water straight to the Temple.

Mehra leaped, landed on the dry stone, and ran the rest of the way up to Vivec's door. This time, none of the Ordinators nor the Temple guard made a move to stop her.

They expected her to clean up their problems again.

Rolling her eyes, she unlocked the door with magic, threw it open, and stormed inside. The door slammed behind her as she looked around the dimly lit inner temple.

“Oh, you're not hiding from me,” Mehra murmured. She raised her hand and prepared to cast a life detect spell.

“That won't be necessary.”

Mehra watched as Vivec stepped out from behind a pillar, mortal as ever. With the last seconds of her spell, she ran over to him with incredible speed, tackled him to the ground, straddled his lap, and set Keening against his throat.

Vivec sputtered and coughed from the wind being knocked out of him. Ah, what a delightfully mortal sound.

Wordlessly, Mehra raised the mask of her helm, withdrew her prizes from her bag and dropped them to the side of his head: a lock of Almalexia's red hair and Seht's golden eyepiece. Vivec eyed them warily then cast his gaze back to her.

It was strange to see one gold eye and one red, and to see Chimer gold meet Dunmer gray without the spark of divinity. He did a number on himself, really; if he wanted to run off and attempt to blend in, it'd be impossible.

“So, what will your trophy of me be?” he asked.

The timbre of his voice was exactly as she remembered it in her past life. Mehra swallowed and set her face in a scowl. Now wasn't the time to think of such things.

“Maybe this,” she intoned. She trailed Keening down across his collar, leaving a faint trail of blood in its wake. The tip of the blade caught on the golden ring attached to his nipple.

Vivec bit his lip. “Are you going to rip it out, then?”

She stared him in the eyes as she gently tugged on the ring. “I would have taken hair,” Mehra explained, “but seeing as you don't have any now–”

“I'm sure you could find some somewhere if you searched.”

This again.

Mehra tugged hard enough on the ring to make him wince and narrowed her eyes.

“You may have that if you wish,” he said. “It makes no difference to me.”

She shifted against him as she directed the dagger back up against his throat and felt him hard against her.

“Molag Bal makes sense, now,” Mehra snorted. “You clearly 'respond' to threats.” She rolled her hips again and delighted in the hiss that escaped his lips.

“Do not torture me,” Vivec grunted. “What do you want?”

She wanted him to pay. She wanted to kill him. She wanted to rip the stupid silk loincloth from his body and fuck him into the ground, just to see what it was like.

But most importantly, Mehra wanted power.

She pressed the dagger against his throat to draw a line of blood across his two-toned skin.

“Exalt me,” Mehra ordered. “Exalt my house. And when Master Aryon makes his bid to become Archmagister– ”

“Aryon?” Vivec wondered. “That was the one that Sotha Sil spared from the draft. He divined that Aryon would be important and declined to say why. I assume he aided you in fulfilling the prophecy?”

“He will still be important,” she hissed. “Got me?”

“You could make my mood much more agreeable if we–”

“Do you understand?! You and your temple will support Aryon's bid.”

Vivec took a deep breath and sighed. “Yes, Mehra. Aryon is good for House Telvanni. I would support him even without your prompting.”

He gave her a thoughtful look. “You look a lot like her, you know.”

“Azura?”

“Yes,” he smiled. “You could be her daughter. I suppose that technically, you are, in a spiritual sense. You're certainly not Nerevar, that's for sure.”

“Well, I'm a woman for starters,” she drawled.

He chuckled and shook his head, unmindful of the knife pointed at his throat. “No, I'm saying you're not like him in the least.”

“And he was-?”

“Kind, for starters,” he replied. “Unselfish to a fault. Didn't care for his power, but strove to do the best he could for everyone. How his soul must burn inside you.”

Mehra snorted. “The 'old man' doesn't bother me,” she said. “And he's guided me well enough. I think he's least angry at Sotha Sil – poor, lonely sod that he was.”

Vivec furrowed his brow and stared off to the side in thought. “He shut himself off from us,” he murmured. “I did not hear from him since our defeat at Red Mountain. Truly, I scarcely ever heard from him. He was completely self-absorbed. He was fascinated by the hidden world and its mysteries, and I doubt he even noticed us most of the time."

Well, hell. That wasn't her impression of him in the least, and it wasn't the one that Nerevar remembered. Still, she never met him in person – alive, at least.

“Yeah,” she shrugged, “for being the one who thought of that whole 'let's break our oaths' thing, he sure seemed to regret it in some way in the end, hiding like he did. He wanted freedom from his burdens. I imagine it felt good, even though his death was a betrayal. You want to know what happened?”

Vivec's face fell at the mention of betrayal. “I presume Almalexia killed Sotha Sil,” he replied. “I thought she might harm me. And I presume she tried to kill you, Nerevarine. It is all very sad. But death comes to all mortals – I am mortal now. In time, death will come to me – perhaps even at your hands. It is futile to deny one's fate. But, nonetheless, I'm afraid I find it all very, very sad that it should end this way, something that began in such glory and noble promise.”

Mehra sighed, sheathed her dagger, and stood. “You're stupid if you ever thought it wouldn't end,” she replied.

“We didn't plan on it, no,” Vivec admitted. “Breaking the oath was evil. Becoming gods was folly. If we sinned, we have paid the price. For the respect I held for Nerevar, and the respect I held for myself, I should never have betrayed my oath. Of all my life's actions, I most regret that failure."

“And now you will be the last left – to have nothing but your own company as you think about what once was,” she chuckled. Mehra lowered the visor on her helm in preparation to leave.

Vivec sat up and regarded her thoughtfully. “And you, though not immortal, were given the gift of being unable to feel age or disease,” he said. “You are somewhat unpredictable, Nerevarine. I am curious as to your thoughts on that matter.”

“Not much to think about,” she shrugged. “I'll probably fuck up and die soon enough.”

“Eloquent and thoughtful as always,” he drawled. “Seems like you're deflecting.”

“Seems like you need to mind your own damn business.”

Vivec shook his head slowly. “Morrowind is my business,” he replied. “I would offer counsel to you, but I know that you wouldn't accept it. Regardless, Aryon will have the Temple's support when he makes his bid. He will be good for House Telvanni.”

Good. Mehra turned toward the door, intent on exploring. She had an entire area behind the Ghostfence ripe for pillaging, and it wasn't as if she would catch corprus again. Really, it was a public service in a way; she got gold, ancient trinkets, and exotic weapons, and the people would have less ash creatures to deal with.

“No goodbye?”

She rolled her eyes. “That's a foolish sentiment, especially coming from you,” Mehra grumbled, not bothering to turn to look at him.

“Well, goodbye then, Mehra,” Vivec said.

Strange that he called her by name. It was as if he expected this to be their last meeting.

Many years later, when she heard of Vivec's disappearance at the time of the Oblivion Crisis, Mehra could only assume that at the time, he knew something that she didn't.

 

* * *

 

Skyrim. 4E 201.

 

All of the traps and Dragonborn symbols should have given her a bit of a clue, but it wasn't until they came across the blood seal that only opened for a Dragonborn that Mehra figured that there was much more going on with these ruins than there first appeared.

Esbern said that they were looking for more information on the Alduin prophecy. Apparently, Reman Cyrodiil III was very important to this location; many carvings paid homage to him there. To Mehra's eyes, the architecture and style was similar to what she saw of the Akaviri Queen's palace before her release.

Selfishly, she wished that she could be doing jobs for Aela instead. Mehra already took out the next objective and quickly got another one. Within no time, they'd have the Silver Hand eradicated. Mehra figured she owed it to Skjor's memory, as well as the rest of the Companions. They kept her secret; she would keep theirs and protect them.

She glanced forward to her traveling companions and fought the urge to sigh. Yet again, Delphine was barking orders at the elderly man examining the architecture of the temple. She had been overbearing the entire time, treating Esbern and his love of intellectual pursuits poorly. Mehra's culture – both her adopted Dunmer culture and the one she grew up with in Daggerfall – respected elders.

She wasn't about to excuse Delphine's rudeness by chalking it up to it being 'just her way' as Esbern said. Grandmaster or not, the woman needed to learn the art of silence.

After winding up a long set of stairs, they came across a large, ancient hall supported by massive columns. In the center of the hall was a table, abandoned and dusty, with rotting, ancient chairs. To the right, through a hole in the ceiling, light illuminated a wall carving. Esbern stood in front of it in wonder, mumbling to himself about its magnificence.

A cold breeze blew in from the drafty ceiling and Mehra shivered. If the temple hadn't been at such a high altitude and hard to reach area, she doubted that it would have stood the test of time as well as it did.

Mehra saw older ruins in her life; dwemer ruins were a few thousand years older than these. She bit her lip as she stared at a piece of earthenware lying on the dusty table. If this was of Reman Cyrodiil's time, then it was quite likely that these ruins were as old as Neloth.

"What's the look about, Dragonborn?" Delphine asked.

She exhaled and shook her head. Lying would get her nowhere with these people; they'd see it a mile away. "One could easily assume that there are wizards as old as these ruins still alive today," she replied.

Esbern turned from his research and gave her a cheerful smile. "Indeed there are," he added. "The Nerevarine – who was a Blade, mind you – was declared as Morrowind's protector by very ancient and powerful wizards from House Telvanni. And she had help, too, from Divayth Fyr, also Telvanni, said to be one of the greatest and oldest wizards to ever live."

Mehra nodded mutely. She hadn't heard any news of Divayth Fyr since she returned. When she returned to Neloth again, she'd have to ask him. Then, she could write the man a letter and let him know what was going on; maybe she could stop by sometime and show him a demonstration of the Voice, if he hadn't seen it already. Mehra owed him a very humble 'thank you' at the very least.

"Aha! I've got it!"

She turned to see Esbern gesturing wildly in their direction. With a sigh, she shuffled across the room, and up the stairs toward the carving.

Mehra eyed it in suspicion. It depicted a battle against dragons, with a large dragon on the far right. Tucked under the dragon's wing appeared to be an Oblivion gate of some sort.

Esbern motioned toward the far left of the sculpture, and led them toward it. "This panel represents Alduin and long ago, when dragons and the dragon cult ruled over Skyrim."

He continued forward to the next panel. "Here," he motioned, "the humans rebel against their dragon overlords - the legendary Dragon War. Alduin's defeat is the centerpiece of the wall. Look at him, falling from the sky."

"But does this say anything about how to stop him?" Delphine sighed.

"Patience, my dear," Esbern chuckled. "The Akaviri were not straightforward people. There is a lot of symbolism and allegory here."

He turned back toward the carving. "Yes, you can see it here. Coming from the Nord heroes, is the Akaviri symbol for 'shout'."

Mehra's stomach soured. She knew where this was going.

"You mean they used a shout to defeat Alduin?" Delphine asked. "You're sure?"

"We don't know which one," Esbern replied. "But probably something rather specific to the dragons, or even Alduin himself."

To her left, Delphine shook her head. She turned to Mehra and gave her a nod. "So, have you heard of this before? A shout that can knock a dragon out of the sky?"

"Never heard of it," Mehra admitted. "But I'm a beginner. Maybe the Greybeards would know."

"You're probably right," Delphine sighed. "I was hoping to not have to involve them in this, but it seems we have no choice."

Mehra rubbed her temples. "I can ask Arngeir if he knows which shout was used."

"Right," Delphine nodded. "Good that you're already in to their little cult. Not likely they'd help Esbern or me if we came calling."

She turned away, refusing to give a response to that. Apparently, Delphine and Esbern had a problem with the Greybeards. Mehra didn't, and she wasn't about to cause any trouble. The Greybeards treated her with nothing but hospitality.

"In the meantime, we'll look around Sky Haven Temple and see what else the old Blades may have left for us," Delphine said. "It's a better hideout than I was hoping for."

Esbern cleared his throat and they turned toward him. 

"Look here in the third panel," he said. "The prophecy which brought the Akaviri to Tamriel in the first place, searching for the Dragonborn. Here are the Akaviri – the Blades – you can see their distinctive longswords. Now, they kneel, their ancient mission fulfilled, as the Last Dragonborn contends with Alduin at the end of time."

Mehra put her head in her hands as Esbern berated Delphine for not paying attention. To her credit, the Breton turned to listen to him as he recited the prophecy.

"When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world

When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped  
When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles"

Oh, no. Well, that happened. She took care of that herself.

“When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls.”

No.

“When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding,”

Stop.

“The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn."

"Can't be me," Mehra coughed. "That's a man right there."

Delphine narrowed her eyes. "Can't you be serious for once?" she hissed. "I'm going to look around and see what the old Blades left for us. You've got something to do, too."

She had a lot of somethings to do, it seemed. As Delphine stormed off, Esbern gave Mehra a sad smile.

"You're the only one who can defeat Alduin and the end of the world," he declared. "All we must do is find that shout. Or, not. Prophecy is not a guarantee; merely hope. But you have shown good fortune so far; don't lose hope, Dragonborn."

“I –”

The words died on her tongue. Mehra didn't know what to say. Could she really overcome impossible odds twice?

Esbern stared at her expectantly, as if she held some sort of profound wisdom.

"I guess I'm headed out, then," Mehra sighed.

Ignoring the enormous prophetic artwork, she wound around the side of the wall, trudged up the stairs nearby, and cracked open the door at the top. A blast of frigid mountain air and light hit her. Mehra threw the door open all the way and stepped outside. In front of her were old ruins of the temple; it was familiar architecture that she saw during her imprisonment.

She paced around the courtyard, kicking at patches of wildflowers that grew in the gaps between the bricks that lay in the ground.

There was no way down here; she'd have to go back through the temple in order to leave. Had she remembered to levitate, it wouldn't have been a problem.

Levitation was not taught at Winterhold, and she heard no mention of it. Surely, it hadn't become a lost Telvanni art in the past two-hundred years.

But Neloth's new tower had a built-in levitation portal. Back in her time, it was expected that everyone, from the Masters down to the slaves, knew how to levitate. If one couldn't do so, they did not belong in a Telvanni tower.

The thought that levitation very likely was a lost art didn't sit well with her, but it wasn't as if she could travel the countryside teaching the quintessential Telvanni spell to everyone she crossed – if she even ended up remembering it.

There were much more pressing matters to attend to. Mehra needed go to Lost Knife Hideout and take out that Silver Hand leader. Then, she'd check in with the Companions, pick up a job, and head out to see the Greybeards.

And if the Greybeards didn't want to help her, she didn't know what she'd do. They were the only ones who could possibly have a clue as to what the shout was that defeated Alduin before.

These thoughts followed her as she exited the temple and trudged through the wilderness toward the Silver Hand hideout.

Her arrival at the bandits' lair painted a clear picture of the state of the group after the Companions' interference. They lived in squalor, and their equipment was poorly fitted and maintained. The fight against the lot of them wasn't fair in the least; Mehra was nearly in her prime again, with the hide and bones of a dragon as her armor. The Blade of Woe and a hefty chameleon spell ensured that the bandits were dead before they even noticed her.

It wasn't until Mehra was finished with the task that she realized that she did not delight in killing them. When she would have reveled in the bloodshed and in her superiority in the past, she certainly didn't feel the same any longer. This job – done in the defense of innocents – was a chore, like any other.

As Mehra washed the last of the Silver Hand's blood from her blade and her gauntlet in a nearby stream, she wondered if Vivec ever predicted such changes in her.

Hm. She hadn't thought of him in a while.

Mehra inspected the dagger, dried it off on some nearby grass, and sheathed it. He disappeared around the time of the Oblivion Crisis, and the rumors said that he was taken by daedra. Could it have been Mehrunes Dagon's followers? Or, had an old enemy seen an opening for attack and taken it?

The Tribunal made their share of enemies, after all. She supposed that she'd never know for certain. It was almost certain, however, that he was dead, the same as the other two members of the Tribunal.

Vivec might have known she would change. Or, he may have assumed that she would do something stupid to get killed. Either one was just as likely. Not even Nerevar's knowledge of his old friends – what little she had of it – could provide a likely conclusion; they changed too much with the breaking of their solemn oath to not use the Heart of Lorkhan as the dwemer had.

Well, she couldn't save everyone. She was one person and there would surely be more casualties along the way, deserving or not.

This time, it would hurt more than it had before. Prophecies weren't a game and Mehra was painfully aware of the fact that opening herself up to others would be full of heartache.

She traveled back to Whiterun to the Companions, wondering if forming such attachments was worth it. Even avoiding connections in the Third Era proved to be impossible; Mehra cared for Aryon, despite every attempt to shove him aside. He was the closest thing she had to a father, forgiving her when she treated him callously.

And Erich.

Heavy footsteps led her up the stairs to Jorrvaskr. Mehra sighed as she reached the top. She loved Erich. No, it wasn't romantic love anymore, but she couldn't deny that she cared for him deeply, even after everything that happened. There was still a strong attraction as well, though Neloth did a fine job of sating her, at least temporarily.

Mehra opened the door to Jorrvaskr and squashed the thought that she ought not to care so much for one of the more powerful and dangerous Daedra Lords. Surely, there was a little bit of Erich left in him.

She stepped into the ancient building, the scent of the evening meal drifting outward. Immediately, she spied Aela in the far corner of the hall. Mehra gave her a smile and approached her, pleased when the normally stoic woman returned her smile.

Mindful of everyone watching, she stepped forward to give Aela a quick hug.

"It's done,” Mehra mumbled. Quickly, she stepped back and watched the small light of recognition flicker in the other woman's eyes.

“Got a contract for some bandits in Orotheim near Morthal,” Aela said. “You game?”

“Yep.”

“Good.”

Aela shifted her weight to the side. “Did a bit of reading, by the way. Was a bit curious about Telvanni and Morrowind and that whole prophecy thing.”

“So you read about the slavery,” Mehra noted.

“Yes.”

Mehra stared down at the floor and shook her head. “I was on the wrong side of history for that one,” she confessed. “I don't think the same way anymore, of course, but that doesn't change the facts.”

She owned a dozen or so, split evenly between Khajiit and Argonian. At the time, Mehra felt that an animal was an animal; it didn't matter that she grew up in a relatively multicultural area in Daggerfall.

“Well,” Aela shrugged, “people change. You around for a bit?”

“Just for tonight, unfortunately,” Mehra replied. “Got to go talk to the Greybeards. Hopefully I'll have a good word with them.”

Literally. She needed that shout.

“Well, we're about to have dinner. You've got some good timing, nearly almost every time you come back,” Aela said.

Mehra laughed and followed Aela across the mead hall toward the great table at the center. As they descended the short stairs that led to the table, Aela regarded her with a strange look.

“You know,” Aela murmured, “heroics aside, it's an honor to have you among our number. You're a good person, and good people are hard to come by.”

Mehra gave a sad smile as she stopped at the table and pulled out a chair. “That means a lot to me,” she admitted. “That's all I want now; to be a good person, and hopefully make a difference.”

“Making a difference again?” Farkas laughed. “How many times do you plan on it? Gonna set a record?” He peered up at her from behind a mug of ale as the other Companions drifted in from the training yard to find a place at the table.

“As many times at it takes,” Mehra shrugged. “One thing that's certain is that war will never change; don't think I'll get involved too much in that one. I just do what I can.”

Tilma set a steaming bowl of stew in front of her. Mehra thanked her then turned back to Farkas. “Speaking of that: Do you have any jobs that need attention? I'm going to be out, so I figured I'd ask.”

He winced and took a sip of his drink. “It's way below your skill level,” Farkas admitted. “Clearing skeevers out of a home in Morthal. Owned by Jorgen and Lami. Town guard is apparently too wrapped up to help.”

Morthal. Aela directed her to a place near there, so it wasn't as if she'd go out of her way to get it done.

“No problem,” she shrugged. “I can go on up there and take care of it. Got some business around there anyway. The inn there is nice and clean. I'm not too good for the job.”

Farkas shrugged. That was good enough for him, apparently. He stuffed a spoonful of stew into his mouth, then regarded her with a strange look.

“How did that wizard like the staff?” he asked, shoving the mouthful of food to one side so he could talk. Aela chided him for his terrible table manners while Vilkas snickered off to the side.

Mehra chewed and swallowed her bite of food, then took a quick sip of ale. “He liked it,” she replied. “I even got an enchanting lesson for it, which is a big deal. He's one of the best enchanters to ever live.”

“Ever?” Ria marveled, “Like Eorlund Greymane level?”

“Like Gaiden Shinji level,” Mehra corrected. “A legend in our circle, with a legendary temper to go with it.”

The table fell silent, each likely conjuring their own mental image of what they imagined Neloth to be like. Mehra took a gulp from her pint and finished it off. Almost immediately, Tilma rushed forward to pour her another. As the ale poured into the glass, she wondered if it would keep coming if she kept drinking it. Mehra wasn't of the mind to get drunk, but she had the idea of relaxing, at least just a little bit. She took another drink from her glass.

“How old would a guy like that be anyway?” Ria wondered.

“There's no telling with a Telvanni wizard,” Athis grumbled.

Mehra swallowed her drink. “My patron, Master Aryon, was considered a young upstart back in the late Third Era,” she answered. “And he was around one thousand at the time. Neloth was already very old then.”

“Oh my God,” Ria gasped, “What does that even look like?”

Mehra laughed and put her empty glass down. Sure enough, Tilma bustled by to pour her another.

“Normal,” Mehra said. “He looks completely normal. Middle-aged, a few wrinkles here and there, and a dark gray beard. Strong, for a wizard – not the strength of a Companion, mind you – but strong. Tall, too. All of the ancient Dunmer wizards I met were tall. Maybe our race is getting shorter as we diverge from our ancestral roots. That's only a guess, though; it may be a coincidence.”

She opened her mouth to tell them that he was also covered in scars and closed it immediately. If she revealed that bit of information, then the next question from them would be how she knew about his scars, given a wizard's typical attire. Instead, she opted to drink her pint and be done with drinking for the night when it was gone.

Mehra kept her opinion to herself as Ria wondered out loud how old Farengar was; likely, he was in his thirties, at most. It didn't mean that he wouldn't live a longer than average lifespan, but he certainly wasn't at the level that Mehra would expect out of someone older.

Vilkas laid the younger Companion's question to rest quickly. Apparently, he and Farkas grew up with Farengar; they played together in the streets as children.

“He was a quiet kid,” Vilkas said. “Tattle-tale though. Cast spells by accident enough times that his parents sent him to the temple to learn a bit of magic. It's no surprise that he's Court Wizard now; Jarl Balgruuf likes to keep his staff local from within the city. Jarl seems to be a community man.”

“Makes sense,” Mehra added. “With his housecarl being one of his shield-companions. When you're that powerful, you need to surround yourself with people you trust.”

Farkas raised his tankard with a grin. “That's why I like it here; I'm surrounded with people I can trust. There's nothing quite like it in the world.”

The others raised their glasses to toast toward their companionship. Glasses clinked, followed by laughter and stories of fights from times long past until one by one, they began to retire to bed. Figuring she ought to get an early start in the morning, Mehra excused herself and made her way to the door with the promise that she'd return for an early breakfast before leaving.

Mehra opened the old, wooden door to Jorrvaskr and stepped outside. The moon hung high and full without any clouds to hinder its light. As she descended the worn, ancient stairs that led to the courtyard, a hint of a breeze drifted across her skin and played with the tendrils of her hair that escaped its bun. Mehra swung her helm by its strap, enjoying the blissful stirrings of drunkenness.

At the bottom of the stairs, she glanced out at the courtyard and stopped in her tracks.

There, on a bench in front of the stream that ran through the city, was Erich. He lounged with his arms across the back of the bench, a luminous pool of white hair behind him. Glowing, amber eyes followed Mehra as her shaking legs carried her toward him.

He was terrifying and beautiful. She wondered if she'd ever get used to it, but as she saw him tap his clawed fingers against the wooden bench, Mehra realized that she never would.

It was no wonder that people turned from worship of unseen gods to worshiping daedra; they were living, breathing gods who, in most instances, could walk the mortal plane.

Erich stood and walked forward to meet her. He was radiant in the moonlight. As a breeze blew by to stir up his hair – long, seemingly endless strands of glowing white – Mehra wondered if, somehow, he was intentionally making himself look better.

They met in the middle of the empty street and Mehra crossed her arms. “What's with the dramatic entrance all the time?” she asked.

“Dramatic?” Erich scoffed. “Me? Sheogorath? Dramatic? Perish the rotten thought.”

Mehra chuckled, motioning for him to follow her.

“What it's like, by the way?” he asked. “When you first see me, how does it feel? I don't remember the feeling.”

She stared up at the sky as she tried to think of an answer. “It's kind of like encountering a rare and dangerous wild animal,” she answered. “That's the best way I can describe it, I guess. But you really don't experience fear or awe anymore, do you?”

He gave her a small smile. “Fear, no,” he replied. “Awe, yes – from time to time, that is.”

Mehra wondered what a Daedra Lord could remotely find awe-inspiring, but decided not to ask. Whatever it was couldn't be good, especially when one took Sheogorath into account.

“You're not going to ask about that?” Erich said.

She glanced up at him. “Nope.”

He laughed and shook his head. “Where were you headed, by the way?”

“My new home,” she replied. “You're welcome to come with me to have a chat.”

Erich tilted his head to the side. “Haven't had a pleasantry like that in a long time,” he admitted. “Sounds nice.”

Mehra motioned for him to follow her. As they walked down the street and descended the stairs that led to the lower district, she thought about how foolish it was to ask him to follow her to her home. Technically, she was foolish by keeping contact with him to begin with, regardless of if she had a choice in the matter or not.

Mehra knew full well that she made a few foolish decisions recently. Inviting Sheogorath to her house would be another one.

Well, so long as she didn't get herself or someone else killed, she supposed it wasn't too foolish.

“I'm not sure what you're used to,” Mehra said, “but this isn't a wizard's tower by any stretch of the imagination. So, be prepared to be underwhelmed.”

Erich rolled his eyes as they passed through the empty market district. “You came out of prison not too long ago and you're already a respected member of two factions, reconnected with your old House, have an entire set of dragon armor – looks nice, by the way – and you own a home. You're clearly doing poorly.”

The pair rounded a bend in the city's main road and descended the short slope to stop in front of the house.

“You're right,” Mehra sighed. “I'm being too hard on myself.”

“Absolutely. Now, let's cause a scandal for any prying eyes shall we?”

She snorted and unlocked the door. Mehra didn't care less what anyone thought of her having a handsome man follow her back to her home, if they had the guts to speak ill of a Companion to begin with.

Mehra turned the knob on the door and threw it open. “Well, here it is.”

She blinked as she looked around. This wasn't Breezehome. This didn't even exist on the mortal plane.

A dirt path lay in front of them, surrounded by a thick tunnel of wisteria. Moonlight shone down between gaps in the trellis above, casting a patchwork of pale, lacy light across the ground.

The door closed behind them and disappeared.

“Someone did this to me,” Erich said. “I liked it; was one of those brief moments that I felt a little bit of awe. I want you to enjoy it.”

She nodded mutely as he placed a hand on her back to guide her down the moonlit path. Coda flowers and glowing mushrooms dotted the way – something that should have been impossible, given the environment of the place. The blue-glowing plants had been placed there intentionally as an alternative to natural light.

It couldn't be the Shivering Isles, could it?

They ended up at a clearing that housed a large, flat tree stump. Blue torchbugs and glowing plants dotted the clearing, providing light along with the full, singular moon above. Even in the clearing, the scent of the wisteria was heady.

“You like this?” Erich smiled. “I call it 'Lady of Twilight, the Second'. Or, you know, Junior.”

Mehra tore her eyes from the scene to look at him. “You made this, then?”

“Sure did. Now, how about a seat?” He motioned toward the stump.

Warily, she eased herself onto the provided seat. Erich took no such caution and flopped down – a very un-Erich-like move – causing the nearby torchbugs to scuttle away at the fast movement.

“So, what's new?” Mehra asked. She stared out at the bizarre but beautiful scene in front of her.

Erich stretched his legs out and shrugged. “Got to meet some people recently. We got along well so I may have a friend. Seems somewhat solid. Can't pluck out his eyes, though. Shame, that.”

“I assume you're being intentionally vague on that one?” she mused.

“Yep.”

“Understood,” Mehra said. “I know things are a bit different. Anything else?”

“I got totally plastered the other night,” he laughed. “Not sure it was possible, but I was so drunk and high.”

She closed her eyes and inhaled the cloying scent of the flowers nearby. Well, that was a new one. “Didn't know you did drugs,” Mehra noted. She opened her eyes to glance over at him.

Erich gave her a roguish smile. “I'm not going to die from it,” he replied, “and I'm not going to get fat or addicted. So, I guess I do drugs now.”

“Alright then.”

That wasn't like him at all.

“Oh, come on now,” Erich chided. “When I can do something with no consequence, why not?”

“You're sounding like I used to, Erich,” she observed.

He wrapped a placating arm around her shoulder and pulled her in to his side. A wandering hand traced light circles on her arm, staying away from anywhere inappropriate.

“There's parts of the old guy in here,” he said. “I summoned my parents' ghosts a bit ago. They're ashamed of some of the stuff I did, but they're proud of me. Da is actually proud of me. Can you believe that?”

Mehra rested her head against his chest and listened to the slow, steady rhythm of his heart. It was a daedra heart in there – not a human one. Without fear, she cradled herself to a powerful and dangerous creature who could have an insane snap at any moment.

So, this was what folly felt like. Mehra cracked a smile despite herself.

“Dark Brotherhood aside,” she said, “I think your parents have plenty to be proud of.”

He turned toward her and smiled. “I've got a bit of a brag, too,” Erich said. “Apparently, when I cast the Finger of the Mountain spell – eh, you remember the one, right?”

Mehra nodded. That dangerous, self-harming spell was impossible to forget.

“Well,” he continued, “when I cast it at Mehrunes Dagon, it damaged him enough to leave a scar. Sanguine told me about it when he first stopped by. Then, when I touched a broken, old Oblivion gate, I saw the guy himself; he's definitely scarred right in his nasty face.”

Hm. Sanguine stopped by. That would explain the drinking and the drugs. Mehra didn't want to know what else went on; a party thrown by Sanguine was sure to become violent eventually.

“Scarring Mehrunes Dagon is quite a feat,” she admitted. “Did you happen to piss yourself from that particular casting?”

Erich laughed out loud and shook his head. “There's that fire. No; no pissing myself – just a horrible nosebleed, blood from the ears and eyes, and a mild case of blood vomit. Attractive, eh?”

She nodded slowly. If he learned discipline with his magic, they could have had a long time together, perhaps an eternity if he learned Telvanni ways.

Erich uncrossed his legs and sat up. “I do have something to give you,” he said. “That's why I came to visit you; I figured you could make use of it.”

Mehra crossed her arms. “You can keep your Neb-Crescen to yourself, thanks.”

He laughed again and the arm wrapped around her shoulders gave her a squeeze. “Now a blade shaped like that would be fit for an assassin,” he said. “I ought to know about it, too; Old Mora let me read that chapter of his Oghma Infinium.”

“I'm still a bit jealous of that,” Mehra admitted. “Now, what's this you want to share with me?”

“Words I saw in my parents' barrow,” Erich replied. “I'm sure your dragon-brain will come up with the one that has the power you need. Look me in the eyes and I can transfer it to you.”

Mehra glanced up and attempted to stare him in the eyes – glowing amber, slit pupils – and shrunk back. They were too close; she was a rabbit caught in a trap.

“You know what they look like. Come on,” Erich said.

She hunched over and shook her head. “I'm a mortal,” Mehra murmured. “You're asking me to stare a Daedra Lord in the eyes. Do you realize how terrifying that is?”

Erich sighed and planted a chaste kiss to her forehead. “I do,” he confessed, “I really do. After we had our fight, he was there to pick up the pieces. I stared him in the eyes, paralyzed in terror. We needed each other. He needed someone to pass the mantle to in order to escape from his prison, and I needed to escape from the Void.”

Without warning, his hands wandered up to clutch her head on both sides. A searing pain ran through her head, and her eyes screwed shut.

Then, the pain stopped. Her mind traveled at an impossible speed out through the door toward Ivarstead – back through time itself – then down into the bowels of the barrow at the edge of the small town. As she traveled through the barrow, Mehra felt foreign emotions: sadness, regret, shame, pride.

Erich was sharing too much with her. The shared thought made the hands on her scalp jerk slightly, weakening their connection. In the next second, they clamped down harder than they had before with a defiant resolve.

“No, dear; you can have me.”

It was too late for that. They both knew it.

It was twelve now. They met at six.

Mehra didn't know what that meant, but in that moment when he held her, it made sense.

The thought stopped entirely when she stood in front of the large word wall deep within the barrow. Without any difficulty, Mehra read the inscription with a startling clarity:

“Here lies the body of Hela, friend to all beasts, servant of Kyne. May she find eternal rest in the Forest of Dreams.”

Mehra had the strange thought of memorizing the inscription to show the words to herself later.

Herself? But she already knew but she didn't know the words and the –

Shit!

The hands on her head abruptly let go, severing the connection. Mehra gasped for air and opened her eyes, immediately shutting them as she realized that the world was spinning.

“Fuck. I fucking messed it up. Shit! Such a fucking idiot!”

An endless stream of curses in dozens of languages came from the daedra next to her. Mehra reached out and clutched at Erich's side, her nails raking a path down his leather armor. Even as he put his hands on her, casting a strange, yellow light, Erich mumbled curses under his breath.

The light was soothing. Mehra sighed and leaned in to him.

“Quiet,” she mumbled. “You swear too much.”

She was tired. She wanted to sleep.

A sigh sounded above her. “I just gave you back your sanity,” Erich said. “I mean, no big deal, right? Shit, that was a stupid way to do it. Always a fuck-up; Da was right.”

“Swearing, Erich.”

“Right, swearing. Sorry about that. Let me carry you home so you can rest.”

She felt arms wrap around her to lift her up – one under her legs, another supporting her back. Her eyes fluttered open for a moment, taking in the sight of the strange wisteria grove.

“Biologically impossible,” Mehra mumbled. Her heavy eyelids slid shut again.

Erich chuckled. “Anything's possible with me,” he said.

“Almost died,” she murmured.

Amid the haze of her clouded mind, Mehra heard a door open and close. The sound of Erich's footsteps changed, as did the lighting, but her eyes refused to cooperate. Seconds later, the familiar smell of old pine, drying herbs, and a vacant, ashy hearth drifted her way.

She was home, at least.

“I'll take care of you. Just sleep.”

Mehra couldn't resist the suggestion; after all, if a Daedra Lord gave someone a direction, it was best to be followed.

She drifted off to sleep, the strange idea of using the name of Kyne in dragon-tongue to calm and soothe animals coming to her mind as she slipped into unconsciousness.

 


	20. Chapter 20

“ _Each event is preceded by Prophecy. But without the hero, there is no Event." -Zurin Arctus_

 

* * *

 

 

_Thalmor Dossier: College of Winterhold  
_ The College is definitely not what it once was. The enrollment is down, as expected. Teachers are mixed in their interaction with students – some care a lot, some seem more interested in their own experiments. Leadership is mediocre at best. Suspected affair between Arch Mage and his second in command.

There are no doors on the private quarters. Messages from the inside agent will be sparse, as it is difficult to be alone. The suspicion is that the College has had issues with dangerous private experiments, and the lack of privacy is the College's response. Agent was instructed to not send any information on important findings in case privacy is breached.

 

_Dossier: Savos Aren, Arch Mage. Dunmer, male. Age guessed approximately 400-500.  
_ Is distant in regards to the day-to-day affairs of the college. Has appointed Master Wizard Mirabelle Ervine as his second in command, and she manages most everything in the college. Seems to favor her beyond a professional level.

Protective of students, or at least the Dunmer students. Apparently, any sort of student behavior when outside the College is permissible in his eyes, so long as it is not profane or dangerous. No rules on decorum or personal conduct appear to have been set.

 

_Dossier: Mirabelle Ervine, Master-Wizard, head instructor. Breton, female. Age guessed approximately 300-400.  
_ She is very suspicious of our agent. Spends a great portion of her time following him. She is decent at hiding, but certainly not stealthy enough against a Thalmor agent. When she isn't following the agent, she spends her time reading, instructing classes, and spending private time in the Arch-Mage's quarters – suspected affair between Ervine and Aren. Agent is using caution with her, as she is adept with Destruction magic.

 

_Dossier: Tolfdir, Master-Wizard, professor. Nord, male. Age guessed approximately 230.  
_ Agent was able to find enrollment information for one Tolfdir Frostfall – as in the month, the record stresses, not as in actual frost – as an apprentice, dating to a few years prior to the Oblivion Crisis. Notes say that he attempted to get information on how to enroll for a cousin, but ultimately, there is no record of said cousin ever attending. There are no other records of a Tolfdir, so this must be the same one. Tolfdir has mastery of Alteration, and is the head instructor for such subjects.

 

_Dossier: Faralda, Master-Wizard, professor. Altmer, female. Age guessed approximately 300.  
_ Faralda is the head instructor of Destruction magic and has mastery in it. She, too, seems suspicious of the agent, who is already taking caution against her. The fact that she and the agent share culture is of no consequence to her. It seems that he is truly in a nest of vipers and must be vigilant.

 

_Dossier: Sergius Turrianus, Master-Wizard, professor. Imperial, male. Age guessed approximately 200.  
_ Sergius is the head instructor for enchanting. He enchants weapons for the war effort as needed, despite the College's anti-political stance. There is little else of note on him.

 

_Dossier: Phinis Gestor, Master-Wizard, professor. Breton, Male. Age guessed approximately 170.  
_ Phinis is an expert conjurer, and teaches courses on the subject. Seems to be quite typical and isn't engaged in any illegal practices that the Agent can tell.

 

_Dossier: Colette Marence, Master-Wizard, professor. Breton, female. Age guessed approximately 100.  
_ Colette is the instructor to the lower-level apprentices, and teaches Restoration. Seems insecure about her choice of study, but there is little about her of note.

__  
Dossier: Drevis Neloren, Master-Wizard, professor. Dunmer, male. Age guessed approximately 300.  
Drevis is the master instructor of Illusion. Seems typical; keeps to himself.

 

_Dossier: Arniel Gane, apprentice, senior level. Breton, male. Age guessed approximately 30.  
_ Arniel is suspicious. He often disappears to do experiments in secret. After the Agent's mission to look for anything useful is complete, we will request him to find out what Arniel is up to, and if it requires intervention from the Justiciars.

 

_Dossier: Nirya, apprentice, senior level. Altmer, female. Age guessed approximately 100._  
Nirya does not like her instructor, Faralda, nor does she approve of the Arch-Mage's leadership and his approach of letting things resolve themselves in time. Seems to have an attraction to Agent – this may prove useful in the future. Agent will use his discretion if an affair or the like is warranted.  
  


_Dossier: Enthir, apprentice, senior level. Bosmer, male. Age guessed approximately 45.  
_ Without a doubt, Enthir is running some sort of illegal business within the College. Agent will keep this knowledge and use if it becomes of benefit to him. From what he has observed, the operation is small-time and not worth the notice of the Dominion.

 

_Dossier: J'zargo, apprentice, beginner. Khajiit, male. Age guessed approximately 25.  
_ Highly competitive with the other students and has no friends by choice. Has openly said that he must prove himself, given that Khajiit are not typically mages. This may be a possible advantage.

 

_Dossier: Onmund, apprentice, beginner. Nord, Male. Age guessed early 20s.  
_ Typical Nord mage: wanting to prove that magic isn't dangerous, weak-willed, etc. Not much of notice here. Seems to be alone and without friends.

 

_Dossier: Brelyna Maryon, apprentice, beginner. Dunmer Female. Age 20.  
_ Brelyna is of House Telvanni, though she doesn't seem to have much attachment or House pride other than studying the works of the Masters of the Second Era, such as Divayth Fyr. Has befriended the newest apprentice, Mehra. Is very serious in her studies, but seems to have a lack of appreciation for history, as do many young mages. Her skill is impressive for a child, as her heritage would dictate. Still, she would be no match if she came up against our Agent.

 

_Dossier: Mehra (No surname given. Odd for a Dunmer), Apprentice. Dunmer, female. Age guessed in early to mid-twenties.  
_ Though new to the College, she has shown tremendous growth in her magical abilities in a very short period of time. Does not appear to be out of the ordinary, save her innate abilities, which favor destruction, alteration, and illusion. Asset has night terrors, though these appear to be normal; no outside influence was detected upon examination. Wears armor made of 'dragon' hide, scales, and bones; clearly a falsehood.

Appears to be quite young, possibly promiscuous. Our inside agent overheard her telling another student about an affair she recently engaged in. This is noteworthy on account that Mehra claims it was with a wizard, and it was on Solstheim. She was apparently invited to return, as well.

Our research indicates that there is one wizard of note on Solstheim: Master Neloth of House Telvanni. If she is indeed involved with Neloth, or even with an apprentice of his (more likely), then it is imperative that all agents take caution with her. An affair could likely explain her increase in skill. If she is of value to Neloth, one could create an ancient and very powerful enemy with a single mistake. Handle this asset with caution and suspicion. We must find a way to inform our inside agent of this, lest he find himself in trouble. It appears that there may be more to her than Agent suspects.  
  


* * *

 

_Dartwing,_

_Hope you slept well! Sorry I drove you insane. You should be fine now. I don't do that one for free, but I figured that since it was my fault, I had to fix it. Hopefully that word will come in handy. If I find another one, I'll make sure to give it to you in a less dangerous way. Stay safe on your way to the Throat of the World. It's a steep and icy climb._

_-Sheo_

 

It was said that Sheogorath tested the minds of mortals, and could do so with the tiniest of riddles.

Why did he refer to High Hrothgar as the Throat of the World? The Greybeards' home was on the Throat of the World, but the phrase in question generally referred to the peak of the mountain, not the fortress on it.

Erich suggested something by it. The thought was both irritating and perplexing at the same time; it nagged her the entire way to High Hrothgar, along with the realization that a Daedra Lord shared too much with her.

He clearly adored her; that much was true. What else was true was the fact that it was too late for them.

It was twelve, after all, and they met at six.

The most damning part of the whole thing was knowing how he felt going into the crypt, knowing how he felt visiting his parents' farm, and getting a glimpse of the insecurity he felt, even as a god. It was no wonder that he dropped her off at her home and left a note.

Mehra sighed behind her cowl and peered up the stairs that led to High Hrothgar's front door. Really, Erich wouldn't have left her if she hadn't been perfectly safe and fine.

There wasn't much she could do other than trust him. With that in mind, Mehra trudged up the stairs to High Hrothgar, her legs burning with each step. The trek up the mountain would never be easy, and she supposed that was the point:

Following the Way of the Voice wasn't supposed to be easy. Choosing peace when one could overpower and overtake others was quite often the more difficult path. So, the way up the mountain symbolized that struggle.

Mehra stopped in front of the door and knocked the snow off of her boots as best as she could. Steeling herself, she opened the door to High Hrothgar, stepped inside, and called out. Footsteps scurried toward her as she made her way from the entrance to stand in the main foyer of the fortress.

She turned to see Master Einarth walk down the stairs to the left of the entrance – possibly where they had their living quarters. Giving her a bright smile, he turned to motion toward someone behind him.

“Oh!” Arngeir called. “It's the Dragonborn. Thank you for telling me, Einarth. Will you fetch some tea for us?”

Einarth nodded and left as quickly as he came, Arngeir descending the stairs after the junior Greybeard departed. He froze at the bottom of the stairs and regarded her with a strange look.

“It is good to see you, Dragonborn,” Arngeir said. “We hoped you would return. Your attire, however, is somewhat incongruous with the Way of the Voice.”

She nodded, her face flushing. “I was getting attacked constantly by dragons. I figured that maybe, this would deter some of the attacks. It does leave the wrong impression, I'll admit. I'm just trying to get respect from some of the people down there; nobody takes me seriously and I'm not going to shout at them or threaten them to get my way.”

“That is a strange way to influence others,” he replied. “Perhaps, we can find an alternative solution. One that doesn't involve the remains of a sentient, intelligent being.” He motioned toward the meeting hall.

Mehra followed behind him silently and wondered what his stance on enchanting would be. Enchanting was a violent process, when one thought of it. It involved removing the soul of a creature – and in the case of powerful enchantments, a sentient, intelligent daedra – and trapping it within an item in order to impart magical power on said item.

They entered the empty meeting hall. Mehra took the chair on the end of the table closest to the entrance, while Arngeir took the one on the side to her right.

“So, what is it that brings you to us, Dragonborn?”

She sucked in a breath. “Well,” Mehra admitted, “I'm afraid that it is business. There's a lot of trouble going on in the world below. Specifically, I need to learn the shout used to defeat Alduin.”

Arngeir's face fell. Quickly, his saddened expression turned into a scowl. "Where have you heard of that?" he groused. "Who have you been talking to?"

Mehra sighed. She thought it would be like this, after what Delphine said about the Greybeards. Apparently, the shout was forbidden knowledge.

She heard the shuffling of feet behind her as one of the Greybeards – probably Einarth with a tray of tea in his hands – stopped in the entrance to the hall.

"It was recorded on Alduin's wall," she replied. "I figured if anyone –"

"The Blades! Of course!" he scoffed. "They specialize in meddling in matters that they barely understand. Their reckless arrogance knows no bounds. They have always sought to turn the Dragonborn from the path of wisdom."

Mehra closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This had to do with Talos, didn't it? The Greybeards guided him in the Way of the Voice, until the Blades presumably found him and turned him into a conqueror.

"Have you learned nothing from us?" he continued. "Would you really let the Blades use you as a tool to do their bidding?"

She shook her head. "I go my own way," she replied, "I want to defeat Alduin -reluctantly- but I will set aside my comfort to do what I must. Don't you want to defeat him too?"

Arngeir threw his hands up in frustration.

"What I want is irrelevant," he said. "This shout has been used once before, and here we are again. Have you considered that Alduin was not meant to be defeated? Those who overthrew him in ancient times only postponed the day of reckoning. They did not stop it. If the world is meant to end, then let it end and be reborn."

Mehra shook her head and stuck her chin out in defiance. For all its horror, there were good things in this world, even if it had taken her two hundred years to see them. To give up and allow Alduin to conquer the world and destroy it was counter to everything she stood for.

"I have not come this far to give up," she replied. "I-"

Dammit all.

Mehra removed the Moon-and-Star and tossed it onto the table in front of Arngeir, the metallic clink of the ring hitting the table echoing through the great hall.

"If I fulfilled a prophecy once," she said, "then I can do it again. I must."

Arngeir said nothing and stared at the ring. She gave it a moment, then made her decision. There was no time for this, not when Alduin was resurrecting more dragons every day.

"Fine," Mehra grumbled. "I'll find some way to do it. I'll talk to Azura, or Sheogorath. The daedra may know. I've got a direct line to them and I'll sell my soul if I have to."

Erich would love it, keeping her for all eternity. Still, Azura was the safer bet for her first contact. She snatched the ring back and shoved it on her finger. If she was willing, then what was there to lose?

“Arngeir.”

Mehra flinched and covered her ears, then turned to see Einarth in the doorway, the tray of tea set aside on a nearby table. His whisper was unbelievably powerful.

“Rek los Dovahkiin, Strundu'ul,” he murmured.

The keep shook with his words. Behind the cover of her hands, Mehra's ears popped.

“Rek fen tinvaak Paarthurnax,” Einarth insisted, his voice growing in volume. The forgotten teapot shattered at the sound of his voice and steam rose up from its remains as the tea splashed onto the tray.

Then, it was silent, save the sound of tea dripping onto the stone floor. Arngeir sat quietly in thought. Still, he didn't seem phased by the junior Greybeard's words.

Mehra sighed and turned on her heel. She was wasting her time here.

“I don't know what you said, Master Einarth,” Mehra mumbled, “but Master Arngeir has made up his mind. I don't agree with it, but I'll respect it and find my own way. Excuse me.”

She made her way to the entrance of the hall, as Einarth's pleading eyes followed her.

"Dragonborn, wait."

Mehra stopped in mid-stride as Arngeir called out to her.

"Forgive me," he sighed, "I was intemperate. I allowed my emotions to cloud my judgment. Master Einarth reminded me of my duty. The decision whether or not to help you is not mine to make."

She looked up at Einarth's saddened face and gave him a nod. Turning back to Arngeir, she crossed her arms. "So can you teach me this shout?"

"No," he said, "I cannot teach it to you because I do not know it. It is called "Dragonrend", but its words of power are unknown to us. We do not regret this loss; Dragonrend does not belong in the Way of the Voice."

From the name alone, Dragonrend sounded like a terrible power to have. The fact that they didn't know it didn't leave her many options.

“Understood,” she replied. “Do you know how I can find it, then?”

"Only Paarthurnax, the master of our order, can answer that question if he so chooses."

Mehra furrowed her brow in confusion. She figured that Arngeir was their leader.

"I need to speak to him then,” she said. “Alduin is growing in strength, and so are his allies.”

"You weren't ready," Arngeir grumbled, "you still aren't ready. But thanks to the Blades, you have questions that only Paarthurnax can answer. He lives in seclusion on the peak of the mountain, and only speaks to us rarely, and never to outsiders. Being allowed to see him is a great privilege."

Mehra pursed her lips. “Look,” she sighed, “I get it, but the Blades did have their purpose centuries ago. Their interference diverted two worldwide disasters. I'll admit that I'm not a fan of the Grandmaster of the Blades; she's overbearing, rude, and doesn't care at all for the importance of history. But if you know what that ring meant, then you know that I'm older than you, and that this isn't my first time mopping up a colossal mess, get me?”

Arngeir shook his head and gave her a wry smile. Standing, he motioned toward the courtyard. “Come. We can teach you the shout that will show you the way. Only those whose voice is strong can find the path. Your spirit is strong, true. But it requires more than a strong spirit.”

She swallowed and followed him out to the courtyard, the other Greybeards following behind them. Yes, she had spirit; Mehra wanted to make sure that Alduin's terrible plans were stopped before he could get too much of a hold on the mortal plane.

But, was she skilled enough in the Voice to make it to the top?

“Paarthurnax lives at the top of the mountain,” Arngeir explained. “In dragon-tongue, it is called Monahven. You may know the peak as the 'Throat of the World'.”

Mehra's stomach clenched.

_Stay safe on your way to the Throat of the World. It's a steep and icy climb._

Erich knew exactly what she was going to do, before she even did it.

“Problem, Dragonborn?” Arngeir asked.

She let out a breath as he opened the door to the courtyard. A bitter, cold blast of air hit them, causing Mehra to flinch.

“A daedra hinted to me that the way was tough,” Mehra admitted. “He must have had the foreknowledge that it would happen this way.”

Arngeir's shoulders slumped in defeat. “Consorting with daedra has no place in our way either. I recommend that you present yourself to Paarthurnax as transparently as possible, Dragonborn.”

“I will,” she replied. “I honestly didn't mean to keep my secret from you for so long, but I didn't know how you would react, knowing that I am the reincarnation of the person who defeated the Tongues.”

Wind whipped through the courtyard, more violently than it had on her previous visits to High Hrothgar. The group trudged their way through the snow toward a set of stairs at the far end of the area.

“Your predecessor's prowess in combat directed Jurgen Windcaller to meditate,” Arngeir concluded. “I believe that in his own way, Lord Nerevar may hold a place of honor to our order.”

“The Tongues were wicked,” Mehra murmured. “I have nightmares of the things they did to the Chimer.”

She looked Arngeir in the eyes. “I take my promise seriously that I won't use the Voice for evil. If I fight, I fight for justice.”

“Justice?' Arngeir repeated.

They stopped at a stone landing in front of a set of stairs that led upward. Mehra looked down at the brazier filled with ashes in the center of the landing and remembered Helgen – ashes upon ashes of life.

“Alduin has committed crimes against innocents,” she said. “I will bring him to justice or die trying. As the Last Dragonborn, I must.”

Behind Arngeir, Master Einarth flashed her a brilliant, gap-toothed smile.

“I make a poor hero,” Mehra admitted. “But if I'm the last Dragonborn, then I'm the only chance we've got.”

Einarth and the other junior Greybeards shook their heads in disagreement. They believed in her, at the very least.

Arngeir motioned toward Einarth. “Since Master Einarth has advocated for you,” he said, “he will teach the shout to you that will open the way. This shout is called 'Clear Skies'.”

Einarth gave a short bow then stepped forward. Stretching out his arms, he motioned toward the stone.

“Lok.”

The first word came out in a raspy whisper, etching itself into the stone beneath their feet.

“Vah.”

The second word was spoken in a similar manner, appearing as the other had.

“Koor.”

Mehra stared at the burning letters carved into the stone in front of her. As quickly as the last word was spoken, Master Einarth transferred his knowledge of the words to her mind.

These words could bend the power of nature to her will. If this was a shout that all the dragons knew, then it was no wonder that they thought themselves above mortals; very few mortals had the fire and speed of a dragon, and none that she knew could control the weather.

She exhaled and stared at the gate ahead that the Greybeards opened. From the path ahead, a gust of frigid, frost-filled air blew across the courtyard.

Arngeir said that she wasn't ready, and as Mehra stared at the maelstrom ahead, her stomach clenched.

Maybe he was right. Maybe she wasn't ready.

“The way ahead is dangerous,” Arngeir said. “Be cautious. Use Clear Skies to make the path safer.”

“I'll do my best,” she mumbled.

“Seems like you always do, Dragonborn.”

Mehra gave him a sad smile before trudging across the snow-lined stone walkway to stop at the opened gate. The wind and snow in front of her was blinding – unnaturally so.

Well, it was time to test her skill with the new shout.

“Lok Vah Koor!”

As soon as the words left her mouth, the wind stopped, dropping the particles of ice and snow that it held in its grasp. Mehra turned back to the Greybeards and gave them a quick smile and a wave before jogging onward.

The way was visible, but it wasn't necessarily clear. If it weren't for the tall markers flanking the sides of the path up the mountain, she figured that she would easily lose the way. Sticks from old snowberry plants stuck out of the top of the snow, the majority of the plant hidden beneath a blanket of white. To her right, a huge wall of rock leaned over the path.

As Mehra continued onward, the scattered boulders to her left thinned out until they disappeared to reveal a sheer drop. She hugged the mountain to her right as best as possible and ducked under a set of icicles hanging from the rock above her. Even with spring moving through the valley below, winter held on to the mountain. Mehra wondered if it ever thawed here.

She crested a peak in the path ahead, stopping at the sight of gray clouds and wind blocking her path. Using her new shout again, Mehra continued onward through a narrow pass that flattened out. The rock to her left ended in the next few steps. With the clearness of the sky, she peered over the edge as carefully as possible.

The land spread out beneath her in a mix of gray, brown, and green. An errant cloud drifted by below her, casting a shadow on the wilderness. Far off in the distance, she saw the small farms that dotted the landscape just outside –

Windhelm? How high was this mountain, anyway?

Mehra crept back from the edge as the wind picked up again. Scowling, she shouted toward the nuisance, clearing it up instantly. She needed to hurry.

Her cold feet took her further up the path to the peak, slowing slightly to cross an icy, wooden bridge with no railing.

The path took a steep turn upward after the bridge. With caution, she picked her way across rocky footholds upward. When she was halfway up the incline, Mehra glanced at the skeleton to her right. How did a mammoth get up here?

She leaned in to get a better look and gasped at the realization that it was a dragon. Perhaps, this was the location of a fight long ago.

Wary, she backed away and continued upward.

The path wound up in a serpentine motion, full of rocks and ice. As she climbed, it grew steeper, and the wind came howling back.

Mehra leaned against the wall of rock to her right and panted. It seemed as if there wasn't enough air for her to breathe. Ice and snow blew forward in a rush, tiny crystals pelting at the narrow, exposed gap around her eyes.

"Lok vah koor!"

The wind was silent again. Mehra leaned her head back against the rock behind her and clutched at the thick scarf around her nose and mouth. Removing it would do more harm than good, even though she felt as if she were drowning on dry land.

With her remaining will, Mehra pushed off from the rock face and continued on.

The seemingly endless trail up the mountain wound upward, until Mehra wondered if she would ever make it. She climbed another peak in the path and prepared herself for disappointment when she reached the top.

Oh.

There, a few dozen feet in front of her, was a broken, eroded word wall. The path was level here, and to her left, the tip of the mountain stood, jagged and rocky.

Somehow, the Greybeard leader lived up here. A quick glance around told her that there was no building, nor was there any form of cave or shelter for someone to live in.

Maybe this Paarthurnax was a spirit of some sort?

Mehra pursed her lips. She'd better take a look at the word wall; maybe there was something there. She stepped forward to the wall, her boots sinking into the deep snow at the peak.

A roar sounded across the sky.

Swearing, Mehra drew her sword. Maybe, there wasn't a Greybeard up here because a dragon got to him first. She peered up at the sky and watched as a dull, green dragon with tattered wings descended. If it wanted to land in front of her, then that was all the better for her to take it out.

"Drem yol lok," it called. "Greetings. I am Paarthurnax. Who are you? What brings you to my strunmah – my mountain?"

Her sword fell from her hand and into the snow. This was Paarthurnax?

"I – " she mumbled. ”I wasn't expecting you to be a dragon."

"I am as my father Akatosh made me," he replied, "As are you, Dovahkiin. Tell me: Why do you come here, volaan? Why do you intrude on my meditation?"

"I, um."

Paarthurnax stared at her quietly. Each breath he took came out in a puff of steam, stirring the loose snow on the ground in front of him.

She'd never seen a dragon this close before – alive, that is.

"I need to be honest with you," Mehra began. "I am Dragonborn, yes. But I am also Nerevar reborn -- the same Nerevar who defeated the Tongues."

He tilted his head to the side. "Interesting. Reborn can mean much. Perhaps – Ah, I forget myself. It has been long since I held tinvaak with a stranger."

"I can see why you'd feel the need to be alone up here," she replied. "Dragons don't have the best reputation, especially now with Alduin and his friends going on a murder spree. That's why I'm here; I need to learn the dragonrend shout."

Paarthurnax nodded slowly. "Drem," he rumbled. "Patience. There are formalities which must be observed, at the first meeting of two of the dov." He turned toward the word wall, the thump of his wings against the ground spraying snow in all directions.

"By long tradition, the elder speaks first," Paarthurnax explained. "Hear my thu'um! Feel it in your bones. Match it, if you are Dovahkiin!"

Words of power erupted from his mouth in a blast of flames hotter than any of those of the dragons she fought before – almost as powerful and hot as Alduin's shout. How in the world was she going to match this?

The words that Paarthurnax spoke etched themselves into the word wall in front of them.

"A gift, Dovahkiin," he explained. "Yol. Understand fire as the dov do."

Mehra approached the smoking wall and stared at the words there. The first one, she knew. But the latter two filled in the final pieces of the shout. As she looked at the words, an energy blew across the space between herself and Paarthurnax, showing her how to use the words properly in the same way that the Greybeards shared their knowledge with her.

"Faasnu. Let me feel the power of your thu'um. Greet me not as elf, but as dovah!"

She turned to the dragon and nodded. This was the same that Arngeir told her to do when they first met. Mehra jogged out of the shelter of the word wall and prepared to give him her best.

"Yol toor shul!"

Fire erupted from the sound of her voice, as strong as any spell she could cast. Paarthurnax jerked back in surprise.

"Yes! Sossedov los mul!" he laughed. "The dragonblood runs strong in you. It is long since I have had the pleasure to speak with one of my own kind."

How long was 'long' anyway? As he lifted off of the ground to perch on the word wall, Mehra had the distinct impression that Paarthurnax was lonely.

"So, you have made your way here," Paarthurnax said. "No easy task for a joor – er, mortal. Even for one of the Dovah Sos – dragonblood. So, you want to learn dragonrend. I have expected you. Prodah. You wouldn't come all this way for tinvaak with an old dovah. No, you seek your weapon against Alduin."

Her shoulders hunched. That wasn't how she meant it, but it certainly was the way she came off to him.

"I don't mind, uh, tinvaak," Mehra said. "People are dying right now though. The Greybeards didn't want me to come at all, actually."

Paarthurnax shifted his weight on the wall. "They are very protective of me. Bahlaan fahdonne."

"I can't blame them," she shrugged. "If people knew there was a dragon up here, they may storm the mountain. I don't know what good my word is since we just met, but I don't plan on spreading it around that you're here."

"This is good," Paarthurnax said. "but I do not know the Thu'um you seek. Krosis, It cannot be known to me. Your kind created it as a weapon against the dov. Our Hadrimme, our minds cannot even comprehend its concepts."

Mehra swallowed her frustration and let out a deep sigh. Another dead end.

"Why do you need to learn this Thu'um?” the dragon asked. “You, who wear Mirmulnir as your hide."

“So that was his name,” Mehra said. “He never said anything. Well, he said 'yol' a lot, in the direction of a highly populated city with a wooden keep. He can do his penance on my back.”

Paarthurnax snorted and gave a short chuckle. “So he shall, Dovahkiin.”

She looked up at Paarthurnax. "I need to stop Alduin. He already destroyed one town. The war is bad enough.”

"Yes. Alduin. Zeymah,” he mused. “The elder brother. Gifted, grasping and troublesome, as is so often the case with firstborn. But why must you stop Alduin?"

"I like this world,” Mehra admitted. “I'm finally starting to find happiness now. And I think other people deserve the chance to find it too. Maybe I'm getting sentimental as I get older; I don't know.”

“Pruzah,” he mused. “As good a reason as any. There are many who feel as you do, although not all. Some would say that all things must end, so that the next can come to pass. Perhaps this world is simply the Egg of the next kalpa? Lein vokiin? Would you stop the next world from being born?"

She crossed her arms. That wasn't a good solution at all. If the dragons were sentient, intelligent creatures, then certainly, they would determine their own path, just as she determined her own. No; if Alduin was doing this, then he acted on his own behalf. Those who made the prophecy must have known much more than anyone familiar with it assumed.

“Well,” Mehra drawled, “if I stop him, the next world won't be around to feel bad about it, will it?”

The laughter of a dragon was a strange thing. It was a deep rumble, like the sound of thunder in the distance.

"What is the word you joor say?” Paarthurnax chuckled. “You have 'sass'? Zii – spirit. Fierce words. But you have indulged my weakness for speech long enough. Krosis. Now I will answer your question. Do you know why I live here, at the peak of the Monahven – what you name Throat of the World?”

A gust of frigid air blew by, causing her to shudder. Mehra leaned down, picked up her sword, and sheathed in its scabbard. As the wind continued to blow, she jogged over to the meager shelter of the word wall.

“Awfully cold here for a reptile,” she observed. “So I don't have any good guess, other than you wanting to guard the Greybeards.”

He peered down at her from over the wall, his slit pupils following her every movement. Paarthurnax had gray-green eyes in a similar shade as the rest of his body. As she glanced at the tattered wing that clung to the word wall, Mehra had the distinct impression that he wasn't as magnificent as he had once been.

"True that I watch over them” Paarthurnax admitted. “But few remember that this was the very spot where Alduin was defeated by the ancient Tongues. The Nords of those days used the Dragonrend Shout to cripple Alduin. But this was not enough. Ok mulaag unslaad. It was the Kel – the Elder Scroll. They used it to cast him adrift on the currents of Time.”

“So they sent him forward in time,” Mehra sighed. “Hence, the prophecy. I imagine those who wrote it were able to calculate the approximate time that Alduin would appear, and they also knew that a Dragonborn was the only one who could use the shout.”

The dragon shifted on his perch and grunted. “Indeed,” he grumbled. “Some thought him to be lost. Meyye. I knew better. One day he would surface, which is why I have lived here. For thousands of years I have waited. Your deduction is sound, Dovahkiin.”

“Plan, then?” she asked.

Mehra listened carefully as Paarthurnax explained his theory of what could be done. When Alduin was sent forward, time itself shattered at the very place they stood. If she were to find an Elder Scroll, it was possible that she could, in theory, send herself back in time to learn the shout from the very people who created it.

The plan sounded entirely plausible, except for one minor detail:

Where in the world was she going to get an Elder Scroll?

When she asked Paarthurnax if he had any idea, his response wasn't much of a help.

“Krosis. No,” he sighed. “I know little of what has passed below in the long years I have lived here. You are likely better informed than I.”

Mehra followed along with the dragon's sigh. “I think I have a few possible options,” she said. “One would be to talk to Esbern. He's the Blades loremaster.”

She waited for Paarthurnax to say something about the Blades – to at least tense up, but there was no such reaction.

“I think I may try that first,” she admitted. “Esbern knew the prophecy and knew that a shout existed. He might know some more. Barring that, I could try Winterhold, as I'm an apprentice there. Other than that, maybe Neloth would know.”

Paarthurnax stretched his head down to peer at her straight on. “A mere apprentice?” he asked. “Your lah is strong, Dovahkiin. Surely you are a wizard.”

That was a long story in and of itself, but she supposed she had the time, especially for a lonely old dragon who lived on a mountain of solitude for thousands of years. So she told him: all about the prophecy of the Nerevarine, her childhood in Daggerfall, her brief career as a serial killer, to her rise to becoming the Incarnate, her tryst with Erich, her eventual downfall, the pain of returning to find ruin, and having to drag herself out of the hole she dug.

The dragon sat silently the entire time and listened to all he could of the world below. When she was done, Paarthurnax shifted his weight.

“So many things to discuss,” he said, “yet it would take years to discuss them. I cannot make comment on your acquaintance with the Deyra – the daedra. Your instincts will grant you safety; do not ignore them. Same as where to find the Elder Scroll. Trust your instincts.”

“I have a feeling that it isn't going to be easy,” Mehra replied, her voice barely a whisper.

“Agreed,” Paarthurnax rumbled. “But not as difficult as you do now: Zin krif horvut se suleyk – fighting the will to power in your blood, a noble and true purpose. Perhaps, your time in solitude was your own meditation. Your own discovery of the Way of the Voice. Tell me, Dovhakiin: of all the words you know, which word calls you to deeper understanding?”

She leaned against the wall behind her and closed her eyes. Of all the shouts she knew, Mehra used Unrelenting Force the most, and it certainly wasn't because it was the first one she learned.

“The Greybeards called it 'Unrelenting Force',” she said. “Given my past, I'm sure it's no mystery as to why it calls to me.”

Paarthurnax stepped down from his perch on the wall to lie in the snow next to her. His great, scaled body further shielded the wind from her face, and Mehra wondered if that was the point of him moving. He turned his serpentine neck toward her.

“It is a good one,” the dragon replied. “The first word, 'fus' is called 'force' in your tongue. Think of the way force may be applied effortlessly, as you have learned recently. Imagine but a whisper pushing aside all in its path. Think of the gentle force you use to influence the daedra themselves. That is 'fus'.”

Mehra nodded. It made sense.

“The next word, 'ro', is balance,” he continued. “There is balance to everything. As you push the world, so does the world push back. Balance grounds you. Balance gives you the strength to pursue Alduin, yet gives you the mind to aid others. The Way of the Voice lends itself to balance of one's nature against – hm, what you would call 'sensibilities'. You temper your aggression with balance.”

“This is becoming less surprising with everything you tell me,” she mused.

“I suppose so,” Paarthurnax replied. “Now, the last word, 'dah' is simply 'push'. As you meditate on the Way of the Voice, you will push the world harder than it pushes back.”

“I hope to,” Mehra said. “Well, at least, I hope to in the correct circumstances.”

The dragon lifted his head and peered at the horizon. “I believe that you will, Dovahkiin.”

Silence passed between them, until Paarthurnax turned back to her with a sigh. “As much as I have appreciated tinvaak, it will be near dark by the time you reach High Hrothgar. You must descend now if you want to live.”

Mehra nodded slowly. “I would have died getting up here without that shout.”

“Indeed.”

She peered down the path that led down the mountain. It was early in the afternoon, but what Paarthurnax said was true; climbing down the mountain would take at least as much time as it had to climb upward.

“I'll take a look into that Elder Scroll,” she said. “Esbern is my first try, since he is a loremaster. Winterhold will be second. And Neloth –”

Mehra sighed. “If Neloth knew about an Elder Scroll, he would have done something with it already. He's a brilliant wizard. But, I think that if I needed something, I could count on him to help in some way.”

“Trust your instincts, Dovahkiin,” Paarthurnax replied. “With this, and with your dealings with others.”

She gave him a smile, the gesture lost underneath the thick wool wrapped around her nose and mouth.

“I will, Paarthurnax,” Mehra said. “And I appreciated our tinvaak.”

With that, she made her way back down the mountain, her instincts telling her that she could readily trust the lonely old dragon.


	21. Chapter 21

**Be advised that there is sexual content in this chapter.**

It's near the end and it's easy to skip if you're not into it. There's plenty of chapter without it. I almost didn't write the scene because I wondered if anyone would want to read it, and then I remembered that this is the internet and OF COURSE people want to read said scene in question, at least, a glimpse of it.

So, it is a surprise of a pairing but I loved the idea too much to let it be.

 

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_"The ultimate purpose of the Daedra Lords is to instruct and improve the generally deplorable character of mortals."_ -Follower of Hermaeus Mora

 

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4E 186. Solstheim.

 

He really shouldn't have touched her.

Neloth wasn't an ill-temperate man; he was civilized, patient, and capable of waiting for whatever he wanted.

But the temptation of a power-hungry female apprentice was too much to pass up. He figured that as an adult, Ildari wouldn't have gotten any silly ideas about the nature of their relationship in her head, but apparently, he was wrong.

More sinister was the fact that she had a lot of power to gain from producing a child off of him. Surely, this was her primary motivator.

He glanced down at the unzipped corpse of his former – well, not lover; they didn't make love. He hadn't done so in thousands of years.

“Varona,” he ordered, “get Ulves so this can be taken out.”

Neloth watched as his steward's eyes widened in disbelief and waited –

“This?! She has a name!”

Ah, there was the outburst. Predictable.

“That,” he emphasized, motioning toward the blood-covered table, “is a corpse. That is not a person. The spirit has moved on, Varona. The corpse is of no value; we are not necromancers. Bury the body if it makes you feel better.”

Varona stared at what was once Ildari, tears welling in her eyes. “Time has made you cruel, Master.”

“I've done nothing,” he shrugged. “Facts are cruel, Varona. Now, do as I said.”

Slowly, the steward tore her eyes from the scene – probably the first time she watched someone die – and shuffled across the tower to do as she was told. Neloth shook his head and turned his gaze back toward his dead apprentice.

It was a painful death, really; if anyone had the guts to have their chest opened and their beating heart removed to be replaced with a stone of questionable origin, it was Ildari.

She stayed oddly silent through the initial phase of the process – looked a bit shock-y through it. But when he put the heartstone in, that was when things got interesting.

Neloth would have assumed that her screaming and thrashing were merely pain-induced delusions, but the things she said led him to believe that it was no mere coincidence.

After all, screaming about not wanting to die was perfectly reasonable in her situation. What wasn't was shouting the name 'Nerevar' and some nonsense about 'you could have been my bride'.

He shook his head and wiped his bloodied hands on a nearby towel. Not even Dagoth Ur would have been able to handle the nasty woman who became the Nerevarine. Neloth didn't know how Aryon managed to not get himself killed by the orphan brat – in training, in bed, or otherwise.

Still, the strange utterance was proof that the heartstones did indeed have something to do with the crater of Red Mountain. Whether or not they were part of the Heart of Lorkhan or if they were part of the stones which lay next to it for millennia remained to be seen.

Neloth made his way over to the nearby washing basin, grabbed the bar of sload soap next to it, and began the process of washing up. Cleaning the mess would take a long time, but thankfully, he had servants for the task. He wished that he'd gotten more out of the experiment than a tidbit of useless information about Dagoth–

“Boethiah's bollocks!”

Neloth narrowed his eyes and glanced over his shoulder at the shocked cook.

“I warned you,” Varona mumbled, giving Ulves a pat on the back.

“She consented to the experiment,” Neloth hissed. Idiots!

Rinsing his hands, he quickly dried them and turned around completely to glare at the idling servants.

“That she did,” the steward confirmed. “Tough woman, that one. What do you think she was talking about, Master?”

Ulves wrenched his eyes away from the scene, pattered off to Ildari's quarters, and began to strip the sheet off of the bed.

Neloth shrugged. “Something to do with Dagoth Ur, I presume,” he answered.

Across the tower, muted curses came from the cook's mouth, including some nonsense about 'bad omens'. Varona, however, hid her fear admirably and instead, stepped forward to cover the corpse's bare breasts in a show of odd Western sensibility that went so far as to infect Dunmer culture.

As a modern, young woman, Ildari would have appreciated the gesture.

Neloth found the entire thing trite. Backward human ideas influenced the culture of his people too much. Traditional First Era Dunmer dress would scandalize the modern masses.

Ulves padded over to the table, and with Varona's help, he wrapped the corpse in the sheet. With that, the cook hoisted it over his shoulder and finally made his way out of the tower with it. Varona followed closed behind, turning around when she reached the edge of the tower's main floor.

“Master?” she called, her voice quiet.

Neloth sighed and waved his hand at her, signaling that he was listening after a fashion.

“Should we get the Temple over here to perform rites?” Varona asked.

“No,” he grumbled. “That woman wasn't religious in the least. Bury the body and be done with it.”

“I – ”

Varona shook her head, then looked down to the front door of the tower. “Yes, Master.”

Finally, she departed as well, leaving him in peace. Neloth glanced back at the bloody table that served as his makeshift operating station and swore. He'd have to notify the Council of his apprentice's death, and would have to submit a request for a new one.

Thankfully, Solstheim was so far away from Sadrith Mora that it wasn't likely that the Council would open an inquiry on him.

With that in mind, he'd pen his letter carefully.

Whomever became his next apprentice had to be the opposite of the nasty one who just died.

 

* * *

 

 

4E 201. Cloud Haven Temple.

 

They did a lot with the place while she was gone.

Mehra shuffled across the main hall of the Blades' new hideout. The broken pottery was cleared out, along with the thick dust around the area. A broom and a mop with a bucket lay against the ancient archway behind her, strange and modern against the ruinous backdrop.

New carpets dotted the crumbling floor of the main hall, accompanied by inadequate braziers. A pair of shelves brimming with food and bottles of drink lined the lower wall of the stairwell that led up to Alduin's wall.

To the far end of the hall, a massive amount of weapons and armor sat next to a grindstone, giving Mehra a startling revelation:

Delphine intended to start a new chapter of Blades.

Mehra shook her head and made her way to the stairs. She didn't want a group of followers nor did she want to be guarded and guided. Delphine wasn't going to like hearing it.

She trudged up the stairs and glanced at the desk and bookshelves to the side of Alduin's Wall. Curious, she approached the small study and peered at the titles of the volumes of books scattered across the desk.

They were all related to the Empire or to the Dragonborn; given the location of the study and the content of the books, Mehra assumed that this was Esbern's corner of the hideout.

There were signs of improvement everywhere, but the ruins' new residents were conspicuously absent. Mehra peered up at the door past Alduin's wall and shrugged. Maybe, they went outside to get a breath of fresh air. It was as good a guess as any.

She jogged up the stairs to her right and approached the propped open door in front of her. Passing through to the courtyard, Mehra saw that her hunch was correct.

Delphine and Esbern stood next to each other, staring out at the landscape below.

“ – but now it’s too late for escape,” Esbern mumbled.

Mehra stopped in her tracks and listened quietly.

“The dragon is upon me – fire and darkness descending like a thunderbolt,” he continued. “And not just any dragon, but the Dragon – Alduin, the World-Eater, the dragon who devours both the living and the dead. And then I would wake up. And hope that it was just a dream… but know that it was not.”

“So you think you knew about this beforehand?” Delphine asked. “I think your knowledge of the prophecy may have informed your dreams.”

Esbern sighed and crossed his arms. “I honestly think that I knew it would happen during my lifetime,” he said. “And that's the truth. I'm not a prophet by any means, nor do I have visions like the Septims did. But I do have some sort of sight.”

Delphine nodded slowly. “And what else do you see?”

“There is another one that I've dreamed, recently,” he replied. “Two important figures, but I don't know their significance. A young, strong Nord in black, shrouded armor with glowing, golden eyes and white hair. A Dunmer mage: middle-aged – gray beard – in extravagant silken robes. The design he wears is familiar to me, but I cannot name it.”

Mehra's eyes widened in shock. That was unexpected, to say the least.

“The Nord may be Erich Heartfire,” Esbern explained. “Champion of Cyrodiil – the one who protected Martin Septim. He was connected with the Dark Brotherhood, hence, the black, shrouded armor. I don't know what his appearance signifies; perhaps, he reached some sort of apotheosis as Talos did. Or maybe, he merely symbolizes hope. I do not know the mage, nor do I know of anyone of significance who fits his description. Maybe he is a representation of the Telvanni mage who guided the Nerevarine. Nothing happens; I simply see a glance of them then wake up. I'll admit this has confounded me for months.”

“Hm. Months?” Delphine asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “This one is very new.”

Mehra stepped forward. She'd heard enough; she didn't want to know what else Esbern's dreams revealed to him.

“Hey.”

The Blades jumped at the sound of her voice and turned in her direction.

“Sorry I scared you,” Mehra mumbled. They really had no idea she was there?

Esbern shrugged it off while Delphine sent her a glare.

“News, Dragonborn?” the Grandmaster asked.

“Somewhat, yeah,” Mehra replied. “None of the Greybeards know the shout. It's called 'dragonrend', so it's no wonder they wouldn't study it.”

Delphine grumbled under her breath about 'damn pacifists'. Crossing her arms, Mehra frowned and continued her explanation.

“Apparently,” she said, “the old Tongues created the shout. They used it on Alduin during a fight, as seen on Alduin's wall. After that, they used an Elder Scroll to – well, we don't know what their complete intent was. They ended up shattering time and flinging him forward into the future. Unfortunately for us, the future is now.”

Esbern shook his head. “That's fascinating! It explains a lot, including the creation of the prophecy. The possibilities that this brings to research –”

“How does this help us?” Delphine interrupted.

Mehra let out a deep breath. “As I was saying,” she scowled, “in theory, if I went to the place where time was shattered and had the Elder Scroll in my possession, I could learn the shout from the people who created it.”

The Grandmaster threw her arms up in exasperation. “That's it? That's really the plan? Elder Scrolls don't just show up. Unless, you have some sort of idea, Esbern.”

For once, Mehra shared Delphine's exasperation. The last she heard of an Elder Scroll was that one went missing from the Imperial Library sometime around the time of the Oblivion Crisis.

“Hm,” he mumbled, “well, it's not the kind of thing you'd find in your local bookshop. Perhaps, try the College of Winterhold. If anyone in Skyrim knows about the existence of one nearby, it would be them.”

Delphine pursed her lips. “That makes sense,” she added. “Look, Esbern, I'm sorry; I'm really frustrated lately. I'm waiting for Alduin to strike another settlement, and that's not something I'd even wish on Windhelm.”

Esbern wrapped an arm around Delphine's shoulders and guided her back toward the temple. “I know, my friend,” he said. “I haven't taken it personally.”

He turned to Mehra. “How about you come inside with us and have a bit of lunch? I know this place is in the middle of nowhere. Great for us, of course, but, eh – inconvenient to visit, I'm sure.”

She nodded and followed them inside the ancient temple and down the stairs of the great hall to stop in front of the long, stone table in the center of the room.

“Have a seat, ladies,” Esbern chirped. “I shall serve you your meal.”

Delphine snorted and pulled back a chair. “Ladies?” she repeated.

Mehra chuckled. “Don't have to be a lady to be a woman.”

“I like the way you think, kid,” she snickered.

Hm. 'Kid'. Sure.

Mehra pulled the chair next to Delphine out from the table and sat down.

“So, Dragonborn,” Delphine said, “what's with this armor you're wearing?”

Mehra unstrapped the helm and handed it to the Breton. “Well,” she replied, “it's real dragon. Maybe you two actually believe me on that one.”

“Sure do!” Esbern called, then turned back to preparing lunch.

“This particular dragon,” Mehra continued, “is the first one I – well, me, Jarl Balgruuf's housecarl, and a large bit of the Whiterun guard – killed. Since I'm one of the Companions, I decided to see if Eorlund Greymane could do anything with the dragon. Turned out that my hunch about it being tougher than ebony was true.”

Delphine peered at the dragon skull's empty eye sockets and nodded. “Well, the armor's fitting at least,” she said. “Seems like you're getting into shape from being with the Companions. That's good; you're working hard and it really shows all around.”

She handed the helm back to Mehra. “You're going to need to keep that strong work ethic for what you have to do in the future,” Delphine finished.

“I don't plan on quitting,” Mehra shrugged.

Esbern placed a plate in front of her, then turned to hand a second to Delphine. Mehra looked down in surprise at the plate full of venison and vegetables. The Blades did well for themselves, considering the remoteness of their new outpost.

Mehra thanked him, picked up the fork that lay across the plate, grabbed a forkful of the greens in front of her, and put it in her mouth.

Hm. Sorrel. That made sense.

“Thought you were going to quit on us in the beginning,” Delphine admitted. “Whatever you think makes you not special – well, it's not true. You're the last Dragonborn, and you're the only chance we've got. No pressure, hm?”

Esbern laughed as he brought over a plate for himself, then turned to grab a pitcher and a trio of cups. “Delphine, you're going to worry the poor girl,” he said.

Mehra chewed and swallowed another bite of food. “Yeah, Delphine,” she chimed in, “you're going to worry me.”

The Breton rolled her eyes. “You seemed nonchalant about the whole thing, if anything,” she said. “Now, I'm curious how Winterhold is going to treat you, given that you're a Companion.”

“Oh, I study there,” Mehra offered. “I'm an apprentice so it'll be fine.”

Esbern sat down at the table with the pitcher and chuckled. “Well, you're a talented young lady, then. It's our privilege to guide you,” he said.

Mehra stuffed another bite of food into her mouth. No matter what happened, she was always going to be treated like a kid; she didn't look her 200-something odd years, and she never would.

She'd have to just get used to it. People meant well most of the time, anyway.

They continued their meal, making small talk about Mehra's studies of sword and spell. Delphine told her that she was to come back so she could do a skill assessment and give her any necessary training when they didn't have the pressing matter of the Elder Scroll.

Mehra agreed to it and resolved that she wouldn't hold back; the Blades needed to be confident in her skills, at the very least. It wasn't as if they'd go around telling everyone about how well she could fight.

As far as her secret of being the Nerevarine was concerned, Mehra wasn't sure about telling them just yet. There was something about them – more Delphine than Esbern – that told her to withhold that bit of information.

Paarthurnax told her to trust her instincts; she'd listen to the ancient dragon's advice.

And she certainly wasn't about to tell the Blades about Paarthurnax. The Blades started out as dragonslayers, and Mehra didn't want to tempt them into wanting to hurt a valuable ally just because of what he was.

She answered the Blades' questions about her life as vaguely as possible, making sure to not tell them too much. With a bit of generalities, Mehra skirted around the truth of who she was and finished lunch with them none-the-wiser.

“Got to get going,” she announced, pushing her chair back from the table. “I've got a contract in Morthal, and from there, I'll head out to Winterhold.”

“Talos guide you, Dragonborn,” Esbern said.

Mehra gave him a nod. “I don't know how this Elder Scroll business will go,” she admitted. “Arch-Mage Aren – well, Master Irvine, really – runs a very strict practice. Anyone who experiments on the profane or dangerous is liable to get expelled.”

“You seem like a responsible young lady,” Esbern shrugged, “I'd certainly trust you with an Elder Scroll.”

Delphine pursed her lips and shook her head. “If there are those sorts of rules in place, be careful, Dragonborn. Come back to us in one piece. Rorikstead is a little less than halfway between here Morthal – due east, actually. It's a small town full of good people. You should stay there for the night.”

Mehra turned to her and shrugged. “Thanks for the tip; I'll stay there. In the meantime, I'm not planning on doing anything stupid until I have to stare at an Elder Scrolls with my bare eyes.”

Esbern laughed, while Delphine winced. Sensing her discomfort, he walked over to her and put his arm around the Grandmaster's shoulder in reassurance.

“Talos guide you,” Delphine sighed. “Talos guide us all.”

Mehra gave them a quick wave, then made her way out of the Temple. As she stopped outside the strong, ancient building, she peered toward the sky.

“Well, we have shared blood,” Mehra mumbled. “So, if you don't mind a Dunmer, then please, guide me, Talos.”

Of course Talos didn't mind Dunmer; what happened between he and Barenziah was proof enough.

Casting her eyes toward the horizon, Mehra shook her head. Lady Azura was on her side, too, as was Sheogorath. And, Nerevar always guided her from within. She wasn't so foolish assume that she was invulnerable, but the ties she did have certainly helped.

Mehra peered down the road as she walked, searching for signs of a settlement. Eventually, the scraggly, rocky forest gradually gave way to the plains of Whiterun Hold. Many hours later, just as the sun began to sink below the horizon in a wash of orange, she caught sight of a dozen or so small thatch buildings and farms. At the center of the village were two large buildings of stone, wood, and thatch; these had to be the inn and lord's manor.

She let out a sigh of relief. This place was the perfect distance to have traveled. Delphine's calculations were excellent.

Mehra picked up her pace toward the village, eager to get off of her weary feet in the nearby inn. Gradually, the path in front of her thinned until it disappeared into nothing; it was likely that people didn't travel toward Rorikstead from the west, and if they did, they certainly didn't travel through the land occupied by the tribal humans – whatever they called themselves; they were fierce, dangerous Bretons who attacked on sight, at any rate.

She waded through tall, sparse blades of new, bright green grass toward the village, intent on her goal until a large, dark pile of earth to the right caught her eye.

Was that a dragon burial mound?

Frowning, Mehra jogged over to the site and confirmed her suspicions. Much to her dismay, it appeared that the grave had been disturbed; large clumps of dirt and rock lay about the site, broken stones crumbled away from the carefully placed circle around the grave, and scratch marks disturbed the dirt in all directions. Mehra crouched down to examine the claw marks in the ground, but eventually gave up trying to age them. If she had Aela's wolf sense, then maybe –

“Dragon came to life about two weeks ago.”

She turned her gaze up from the ground to see a dirty Nord girl standing in front of her.

“How many dragons were here?” Mehra asked.

“Two,” the girl mumbled. “One landed here and did something to bring the dead one back to life. They were mean dragons.”

Alduin. It made sense that he'd go to every burial mound he could find in search of allies.

“Did they hurt anyone?” Mehra asked. This village was so tiny; she hoped it was beneath the World-Eater's notice.

The girl shook her head, and Mehra sighed in relief.

“I had a dream after that,” the girl said. “There was a good dragon. He was old and gray, but he wasn't scary.”

Paarthurnax? So, this girl had visions. She wondered if the child was even aware of her gift.

Mehra approached the girl, knelt down, and put her hand on her shoulder. “Just between you and me,” she murmured, “I think you might be right; there's got to be at least one good dragon out there. But if you see any dragon, hide in a cave or cellar until you're sure they're gone, understand?”

“Sissel! Stay away from that damned mound! Get over here now!”

The girl flinched at the sound of the man's voice but did as she was told. Frowning, Mehra assumed that perhaps, the girl – Sissel – played around the dragon burial mound one too many times. Once was more than enough, truthfully; had she been there when Alduin showed up, the kid would be dead.

Mehra left the mound behind and followed the loose, rocky slope that lead downward from the site to the main road that passed through the village. Shifting her pack on her back, she walked toward the tavern in the center of town, noting that the nearby farmers stopped in their work to stare at her. She caught the eye of a Redguard in a simple set of home-fashioned leathers and an ear-flap hat to protect his head from the sun.

“Tavern?” Mehra asked, pointing at the large building in the center of the village.

“Aye,” the man replied. “You here from the city?”

“Kind of,” she shrugged.

“I travel to Whiterun to make deals,” he continued. “You don't look like a merchant, ma'am.”

Mehra chuckled. “I'm one of the Companions. Just passing through.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “Well, you are quite welcome here, Companion. I've no doubt that you'll have a refreshing rest at our inn.”

She gave him a quick thanks, then headed through the town toward the large building at its center.

Mehra was grateful when the villagers didn't question her about what happened at the burial mound.

They wouldn't have liked like her answer.

 

* * *

 

Days later, in Morthal.

  
The Silver Hand hideout wasn't much to look at, but the werewolf slayers dug themselves in deep to the cave. Dispatching them, however, wasn't difficult. Her expanded understanding of the Unrelenting Force shout seemed to give the shout much more power than it had before.

After taking care of the Silver Hand, Mehra moved on to do Farkas' job. Skeevers in a cellar was far below her skill level, as Farkas said, but at the same time, the objective was to help people out. After a quick ten minutes of extermination, she left the grateful clients to make her way to the inn at the edge of the town.

There was nothing to do in Morthal, but this suited Mehra just fine; she didn't want to be in a noisy, crowded tavern all night. Moorside Inn was mostly empty, the last time she traveled through town.

Mehra opened the door to the tavern and found this to be the case once again. Aside from the keeper and the horrible bard that lived at the inn, the room's only other occupant was a Breton man dressed in black conjurer's robes – brown eyes, black, shaggy hair, a handsome face, and a very mischievous smirk.

He looked up from his ale and pushed the chair across from him out with his foot. “Saved a spot for ya,” he drawled.

Mehra laughed. Well, she could join him, she supposed. She unstrapped her helm and breathed a sigh of relief at the fresh air on her head.

“Welcome back, Mehra,” the innkeeper called. “Heading back to the College?”

“Yep. Gotta do some research in the library.”

Well, she had to find an Elder Scroll, but it was technically research.

Mehra turned to wave at the orc bard in the corner then approached the conjurer's open table. She slung her bag down and slumped in her chair.

“So, teleport waypoints,” she drawled. “Wouldn't those be novel?”

The conjurer leaned in and smirked. “But that would involve ending up near a temple. And who wants to do that?”

Mehra snorted. Apparently, he was the irreverent kind. She didn't mind it either way.

“Well,” she replied, “One could make obelisks in the shape of Vivec's spear and place waypoints there. I'm certain that would be non-offensive.”

“He certainly thought he was clever, didn't he?”

They both laughed, and Mehra was surprised he caught the reference.

“My name's Sam,” the conjurer said.

He offered his hand and Mehra shook it. Their eyes met – oh, he was very handsome indeed.

“Mehra,” she said. “So, Sam, what are you in for?”

Sam grinned and laughed. “You make it sound like I'm in prison.”

“I mean,” Mehra mumbled, “it's not the same at all but one could feel otherwise.”

She took pity on the innkeeper, who undoubtedly overheard what she said. “Jonna,” she said, “You know I mean Morthal and not your inn, right?”

Jonna shrugged. “I know what you mean, Mehra,” she said. “Dinner?”

“Yes, please.”

The innkeeper nodded and pulled a large knife from behind the counter and turned toward the fire. “You're lucky today,” she called, “Lurbuk is paying for his room today in game.”

In the back of the room, the orc practiced his lute, oblivious to everyone.

Mehra leaned in toward the conjurer across from her. “Be careful in this town,” she said. “The locals don't like our type, here. You look like you can handle trouble just fine, but be careful.”

Sam shrugged and gave her a cocky grin. “Don't worry about me,” he chuckled.

“She's right,” Jonna said. “They suspect the worst things about my brother here, just because he's a conjurer.”

“I'll consider myself warned, then,” Sam replied, taking another sip of his ale.

The innkeeper piled a healthy cut of venison onto a plate and tossed on some roasted carrots and potatoes. Quickly balancing a fork off to the side of the plate, she brought the food over to the table and placed it in front of Mehra.

Mehra made a move to grab her coinpurse, but Jonna waved her off.

“Just pay me tomorrow at breakfast,” she said. “Relax tonight.”

Shrugging, Mehra dug in to her meal. Jerky and an apple weren't much of a lunch, and she was very hungry after a long day of work.

“Should have been born a noble,” Sam mumbled, staring down at the plate of food. “Damn, I love food.”

Mehra swallowed the bite of venison in her mouth and nodded. “Shit luck, I'm afraid. Could find your way in, though; mage-folk are always in demand.”

Sam chuckled and leaned back in his chair, tipping it on its back legs. “I'm too much of a cuss to make it happen,” he admitted.

She laughed along with him and finished the plate of food. There was something about Sam that was different from anyone she'd met in a long time. He was more than just a run-of-the-mill conjurer punk; Sam was unapologetically himself and didn't appear to give a damn about his reputation.

And Mehra got the sense that Sam could easily back up his cocky words with a show of incredible magical power.

Jonna walked forward and grabbed the empty plate from the table. “Drinks?”

“Now you're talkin',” Sam beamed.

Mehra nodded in agreement. She was in good company and figured she could let loose some. As Jonna turned her back to get ale from the tap, Sam leaned across the table.

“I challenge you to a drinking contest,” he said.

Oh. She hadn't had one of those in years.

Mehra laughed. “Sam, I'm a bit old for that.”

“Nonsense!” he insisted. “Besides, what's a little fun, anyway?”

Jonna placed two pints in front of them and let them know she had plenty more. One glance back up at Sam and his smirk made Mehra cave.

At the very least, Jonna would make good money off of the pair of them.

“I have no problem with losing,” she said, “just so you know.”

The man was likely half a head shorter than her, so maybe, she stood a chance. They picked up their gigantic Nord-sized mugs of ale, clinked them together, and began to drink. Mehra swallowed as fast as she could, but the ale was warm and foamy and quite honestly, awful.

Sam finished before she was even halfway done. Counting it as a loss, Mehra stopped drinking and surfaced for air.

Jonna walked by, grabbed Sam's mug, then took it back for a refill. Mehra decided to gulp down the rest of hers before she returned.

The awful taste of the ale hit her again, but she wouldn't quit so easily. Seconds later, the end was in sight. Mehra put in a final burst of effort before finishing. She pulled the mug away from her mouth and panted.

When she looked over at her drinking companion, her eyes widened. Against reason, Sam already finished his second mug.

“How are you doing that?” she asked.

“Two to your one, so far,” Sam smirked.

Jonna came back again to grab the mugs for another refill. “Please do not vomit in my inn,” she murmured.

Mehra felt the familiar pleasantly hazy and warm sensation of the alcohol affecting her already. She stared at Sam, noticing the way his cheeks flushed pink and the way his mouth was set in a permanent, soft smile. He felt it, too.

Goodness, he was handsome. Mehra wondered if he liked Dunmer girls.

Jonna returned with the pints and set them down. As Mehra picked up her ale, she figured she ought to give Sam a little test. She bit her lip and gave him a smirk as they clinked glasses again.

“Cheers,” she said.

Mehra tilted back dramatically to drink her pint, stretching her leg under the table to brush past his. After gulping down half of the pint, she peered over the rim of her glass to her drinking partner and whimpered. He was finished with another pint.

Putting the mug down again, Mehra sighed. At least the ale didn't taste as awful, this go-around.

Jonna came back again and took his mug to refill it. Realizing that she was running a losing proposition, Mehra decided to change tactics.

“You drink like a Nord, Sam,” she pouted. “I don't think I could ever keep up.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Mehra watched Jonna fiddle with the tap, then put Sam's empty mug on the countertop. “I have to go to the cellar,” the innkeeper called. “Be back up in a bit.”

Mehra crossed her leg under the table, allowing it to come flush against Sam's. He leaned in to her; she took this as a good sign.

“Oh,” he purred, “I can drink much more than a Nord, my dear. Now, you need to finish up.”

She took another few swigs of the drink, until there was a quarter left. Sam seemed disappointed when she stopped drinking again, but there were other things on her mind.

Mehra swirled the drink in disinterest and decided to make her move. “Let's forget this game,” she said, “and let's play another.”

“Oh?”

“Let's get a room,” she said.

“Oh,” Sam repeated, “A little debauchery for two? I'd like that.” His eyes flicked down to her chest, then back up again.

The innkeeper came back up from the cellar with a small keg in her hands. Mehra stood, bracing herself against the table when the alcohol hit her. She shook it off as best she could, trudged up to the counter, and leaned over.

“Jonna,” she murmured, “we want a room.”

“Can't say I didn't see that coming,” the innkeeper drawled. “Room's over there. Pay in the morning.”

Mehra turned to give Sam a triumphant smile. Slowly, the Breton scooted his chair out from the table and made his way over to the room. Mehra followed close behind.

As soon as they were inside, Mehra shut the door and cast a silence spell over the entrance. She turned around to give the conjurer a smirk. “Don't want them to hear me make you cry,” she said.

Sam looked delighted. He closed the distance between them to pull her in for a kiss that –

She never had a kiss – a simple, quick kiss – that instantly ignited a fire of longing that made her want to tear both of their clothes off. Mehra held on to her self-control by a mere thread as he leaned up again and kissed her again – stronger this time, with his tongue darting out to taste her.

Her self-control shattered. Mehra lashed out at him like an animal, kissing him and tearing at his robes with a fierceness that consumed her.

Sam's hooded robe fell to the floor, along with Mehra's armor, boots, and shirt. As they kissed again, Sam reached up to untie the leather cord that kept her hair up and directed her hips toward the bed. Mehra fell backward without grace – couldn't tell if it was the alcohol or lust – and watched as the Breton drew back to admire her with hungry eyes.

“I swear, you look just like her,” Sam panted.

Oh?

“Always refusing me,” he continued, “always looking down on me and some of my family.”

He drew her in for a suckling kiss, then pulled back to run his hands through her hair.

“Looks like it's made of dusk,” Sam mumbled. He sobered for a second and his eyes traveled back to meet hers.

“The resemblance is uncanny,” he admitted, “but I'm under no illusion that you're someone else. Don't worry about it, alright? Let's have a good time.”

“If you love someone, then –”

Sam scrunched his face up in disgust. “No, no no,” he said, “not that at all. She's pretty and I wanted to have a go. That's all. I never thought I'd see another one so beautiful like her, but well, here I am, and here you are.”

She searched his eyes and came up with nothing that seemed off about what he said. Shrugging, Mehra took it for what it was: she looked like someone he fancied.

“This beautiful black skin,” he purred. “You are so lovely.”

Mehra smirked and leaned forward to grab a handful of his shirt. “This. Off.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Sam drawled, chuckling when she reached out to give his arm a playful slap.

There was a strange alchemy between them; she couldn't deny it.

Sam kicked off his boots, tossed his tunic over his head, and joined her on the bed. They met in the middle for another kiss – tongues tangling, moaning quietly – before Sam gently pushed her backward to lie down and trailed reverent kisses down her neck to her collarbone.

He continued lower to her breasts, his hands drifting downward to grab the waistband of her pants and tug them down to her knees. Sam leaned back on his haunches to remove her pants entirely and admired her once again.

For a conjurer, he was decently built; large, short, and strong. Like most Breton men, his chest was covered in a wolf-like mat of hair. He reminded her of some of the first men she fumblingly lay with when she was young in Daggerfall.

“Something on your mind?” he asked, snapping her back into the moment.

Mehra leaned up to give him a quick kiss. Slowly, she ran her hands over the planes of his chest and the thick, black hair that lay there.

“You're very manly, Sam,” she purred.

He chuckled and leaned in for another kiss. While he was distracted, Mehra palmed the bulge that tented his pants, causing him to moan against her mouth. Gently, she stroked him a few times as his head fell forward. He panted in short, hot breaths against her neck.

Sam drew back, pushed her hand aside, and unstrapped the belt buckle around his waist. “Couldn't resist, eh?”

She shook her head and bit her lip, watching as Sam removed his pants and tossed them on the floor. With renewed boldness, Mehra scooted closer and wrapped her hand around his cock to stroke him again.

Sam grinned, put his hand over hers, and guided it to show her exactly how he liked it.

“Excellent,” Sam breathed. “Just like that. Mm, smart girl. Such a fast learner.”

Oh, thank Oblivion he was a communicator. They'd know exactly what each other liked, or at least, they'd learn quickly.

Mehra leaned down to plant a kiss on the side of his jaw. “Gonna teach me something new, Sam?” she murmured.

He turned his head to the side and gave her a slow, sensual kiss. “Oh darling,” Sam crooned, “I'm going to teach you as many fucking tricks as I can.”

With that, his hand skimmed across her hip and down to caress the front of her mound. Deft fingers dove between her folds, spreading pleasure and warmth throughout her body with the simplest touch.

Mehra opened her mouth to instruct him in the same way he did to her, but all that came out was a strangled moan. Whatever he was doing was perfect. In the wake of his touch, the hand that meant to continue to stroke him forgot what it was doing and dropped to her side.

A quick flick of his finger over her swollen clit sent her bucking against his hand and nearly screaming from the strength of the sudden orgasm. After what seemed like an eternity later, his finger slowed, allowing her to breathe. Mehra clung to his shoulders as her body trembled.

“Sam,” she panted, “you're so gifted. Really.”

He gave her a sly smile and removed his hand. “You're a sensitive woman, I think,” he insisted. “Quite gifted yourself, in that regard.”

Sam brought his fingers to his mouth, making a show of cleaning them off. Once finished, he shifted on the bed then lay back against the pillows on his back. He grabbed his erection and pointed it upward.

“Got a seat for ya' right here,” Sam chuckled.

“Oh, I see that it is open,” she replied. “How kind of you to save it for me.”

Mehra crawled across the bed and straddled him on all fours, leaning down to give him a languid kiss. When they parted, she leaned back to grind against him, earning a pleasured hiss. With one hand, she braced against him, and with the other, she grabbed him and guided him toward her entrance.

Mehra lowered herself on top of him slowly, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside her. As she leaned back, closed her eyes, and reveled in the sensation, a pair of wily hands crept up her thighs to gently grip her hips.

She cracked her eyes open to stare down at his flushed face. “How do you want it, Sam?”

Giving her a small smile, Sam directed her hips slowly, their bodies sliding together perfectly. Once again, his directions were perfect.

As she ground against him and found her pace, one of his hands slid forward to gently rub her clit. At his slightest touch, Mehra jerked and moaned, her body clamping down on him like a vise.

“Oh, I love a strong warrior woman,” Sam groaned. “Strong arms, thighs – even your cunt's strong.”

He punctuated his statement with another, stronger stroke, causing her to shout again. Not wanting to waste any more time, Mehra ground down on him mercilessly, bucking her hips as fast as she could. Still, his hands guided and stroked her, and after a short amount of time –

Mehra thrashed wildly above him, shouting and moaning as she rode him to another climax. Below her, Sam groaned and joined her, thrusting deep inside her body. They ground together slowly as the last remnants of climax ebbed away.

It was fast – too fast – but he was so good that she just couldn't help it.

“My turn,” Sam panted.

Slowly, he lifted her off of him – how was he still rock hard? – and directed her to lie on her back. She stared after him in shock as eased himself between her legs.

“How are you still able –”

“Discipline,” he crowed. “Never seen it before?”

Mehra shook her head and watched as he entered her again. There was something about Sam that made her feel inexperienced and new, despite all her years.

 


	22. Chapter 22

A/n: I feel like the Arcanaeum isn't big enough in game. That's all.

 

ALSO maybe I'm brain fogging this, but I'm quite certain that this site used to allow line breaks to separate sections??? I don't see that button anywhere, nor did the section breaks paste properly, so I guess y'all are getting dashes.

 

 

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_Ask yourself! How is it that mighty gods die, yet the Daedra stand incorruptible? How is it that the Daedra forthrightly proclaim themselves to man, while the gods cower behind statues and the faithless words of traitor-priests? -Mankar Camoran_

 

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Oh. He left already?

Mehra stared at the empty spot in the bed, closed her eyes, groaned, and rolled over; her entire body felt like a giant bruise. The man was a treasure, truthfully. When she proposed that they get a room, she honestly had no clue what Sam was capable of, but she was more than pleasantly surprised. She never had sex quite like that before. Where had he learned so much? His control over his own body was astounding, as well as his uncanny knowledge of what she liked most.

And the things he taught her made her want to use them on a poor, unsuspecting man. Maybe she ought to visit Neloth sometime soon; it was quite possible that she'd have some tricks that would even surprise the old man.

She opened her eyes and her stomach lurched at what she saw.

A perfect red rose lay on the nightstand, and underneath it, a piece of folded parchment. Afraid to touch the flower, Mehra eased the paper out from underneath it. Swallowing, she unfolded it, her heart racing.

_Little Azura,_

_I usually throw much bigger parties, but a smaller party is still a party, isn't it? I was worried that you'd be so serious, but you are something else. You certainly know how to have a fun time! Such a quick study, too. Take this rose and keep it as a reminder of our encounter. Maybe I'll see you on Heart's Day? I'd love to take you back to my place for a little vacation. You work hard; you'll deserve it soon enough._

_\- Sam Guevenne_

Mehra pursed her lips. Sam Guevenne. Samguevenne.

She fucked Sanguine.

Mehra closed her eyes and thumped her head against the headboard in frustration. Her entire body was sore, and now, she knew why.

Nervously, she looked at the Moon-and-Star. Would this situation anger Azura? Mehra supposed it wouldn't; she'd done a lot worse to insult Azura as her champion than having a bit of sex. And it wasn't as if Sanguine and Azura were enemies.

It made sense, then, what 'Sam' said about a woman that looked like her refusing him; Sanguine wanted Azura, but clearly, she refused him.

Well, it was none of her business. How and why Sanguine decided to come after her was a much more pressing matter. Even then, she'd probably never know. Daedra Lords had their ways, and no mortal could truly understand them.

Sighing again, Mehra put the note aside and hobbled about the room to retrieve her clothing. Each item went on slowly – her arms were sore, hips ached, legs were sore, and her nether regions –

Incredibly satisfied and undeniably raw.

Mehra winced in pain as she sat down on the bed to put her boots on. Last night, he kept going and going, even when her body was about to nod off.

Finally dressed, she grabbed her bag and tossed it onto the bed. Mehra tucked the note into the smallest, most hidden compartment of the bag. Steeling herself, she reached over to the nightstand and grabbed the beautiful, perfectly red rose.

It didn't feel like what she expected out of Sanguine's Rose, the rumored staff that he gave to mortals as a token. Rather, this particular artifact felt more like the Fork of Horripilation that Erich gave her.

It was a calling card – a possible means of summoning – if the Lord on the other end of the artifact felt like heeding the summons.

“Lord Sanguine,” Mehra murmured, turning the rose in her hand. “Your gift is flattering.”

She was under no illusion that Sanguine gave it to her in case she ended up in trouble; he wanted her to call him so they could have another encounter. Still, these things weren't handed out all the time.

Mehra tucked the rose into her bag next to the note. She was perfectly satisfied and likely would be for a very long time.

With her bag packed and ready, she tied her hair up into a hasty bun before strapping on her helm. Mehra shouldered her bag, took a deep breath, and walked over to the door to open it.

There was nobody in the inn again, save Jonna, who stood over a pot of stew. A quick glance out the window told Mehra that it was on the off hour for meals. Across the inn, Jonna looked up from her cooking and gave her a smirk.

“The gentleman paid for everything,” Jonna drawled. “I think he quite liked you.”

Mehra sat down at the nearest table, not trusting her visibly trembling legs to take her anywhere without a proper meal first.

“Yeah, uh,” she mumbled. “I think he liked me too.”

He gave her a summoning artifact, for fuck's sake.

“Well, we were somehow able to get sleep last night,” Jonna said. “You two kept it down.” She ladled a hearty portion of stew into a bowl, then grabbed a hunk of bread from the pantry.

“I cast a silence spell over the door,” Mehra admitted.

The innkeeper set the bowl of food in front of her and nodded. “Well that's courteous then,” she shrugged. “Speaking of courteous, he bought this meal for you, too. I really think that guy liked you a lot, Mehra. Maybe you should see if you've got some things in common. He had deep pockets, for a conjurer.”

She picked up the spoon and waved the idea off. “He's nonreligious,” she shrugged. “That's a deal-breaker for me.”

Jonna nodded in understanding, then went back to the kitchen to continue housekeeping.

Feeling that she adequately dodged the innkeeper's questions, Mehra turned to her meal. She didn't mind Jonna's questions; talking about such things was normal, after all. But lying about the whole thing made her a bit squeamish, considering who 'Sam' really was.

It was better to not think of such things. Shaking her head, Mehra grabbed a spoonful of stew and sighed at the wonderful taste. She wasn't sure how the woman was able to grow fresh herbs near the inn to the side of the swamp, but found herself grateful for it.

Finishing the stew was easy, given last night's activities. With her stomach full, Mehra scooted her chair back from the table – still couldn't finish off the bread – and brought the empty bowl over to the innkeeper.

“Headed out, then?” Jonna asked, taking the bowl from her hands.

“Yeah,” Mehra nodded, “don't know when I'll be back in town next, so take care of yourself.”

“You too,” the innkeeper replied. “I hope your studies go well.”

With that, Mehra gave her a quick wave and headed out of the inn and into the marshy town. The road that led through the center took her quickly out of Morthal and into the cold, swampy wilderness. Eventually, the swamp thinned out and the path increased in elevation. Mehra climbed upward, passing though little streams of water from snow melt runoff.

The mountain pass was supposedly quite dangerous, but it was the only way for her to get to Winterhold. Keeping quiet, Mehra walked along the melting path, passing beneath a massive shrine to Mehrunes Dagon.

As far as she could see, the shrine was desolate; a blanket of melting snow lay at the top, and the altar appeared to be covered in snow and devoid of offerings, as well. Out of curiosity, Mehra cast the most powerful detect life spell she could, and confirmed that there was nobody – and no thing – up there.

Well, it was definitely for the better; Mehrunes Dagon historically never did anything positive for mortals, save his creation of his Razor, and even then, said artifact was suspect.

Relieved that Erich and Martin Septim thoroughly defeated the Daedra Lord, she trudged down the path away from the shrine as quietly as possible.

All the way to Winterhold, the snowy path continued, and, in fact, solidified the closer she got to the half-abandoned city. After a quick overnight stay at Nightgate Inn – the tiniest, most remote inn she'd ever seen – Mehra continued on her way.

The Shrine to Azura came into view many hours after her departure from the inn. Feeling hopeful, Mehra took a quick detour from her path to stop at the massive shrine.

With careful steps, she made her way up the large staircase that led to the base of the statue and the altar. She reached the top, knelt down, and placed her hands on the altar.

“Lady Azura,” she began, “I'm, uh, not good at these prayers. I need to absolve myself. Well, you know what happened last night. I'm not going to hide from you.”

Mehra paused and stared up at the sky. Gray-blue, heavy-bottomed clouds covered most of it, blocking out the sun.

There'd be a storm heading through, and with the temperature it was outside, it was likely to be a freezing rain. She'd take the snow over that, honestly.

“I've got to find an Elder Scroll,” Mehra continued. “Maybe I can use it to find the shout that defeated Alduin before.”

Well, Azura already knew that through her connection to the Moon-and-Star. She sighed and stared down at the ground.

“I'm bad at this. I didn't grow up religious and I've got no clue how to pray,” she admitted. “I'm sorry; you deserve prettier words.”

And no inkling from Nerevar as to what to say to their Lady. It figured, really.

A warm breeze blew by, rustling the tendrils of hair that escaped from underneath her helm and carrying a strange, flowery scent with it.

Roses?

The warmth spread through her, and before she knew it, Mehra was smiling. She glanced up to see the sun peeking through the clouds above the statue.

“Alright,” she smiled. “I appreciate it. And I want to do better next time, too – with everything. You didn't mind it, then? Not that I plan on summoning him.”

The breeze blew by more faintly this time, the cloying scent of roses disappearing slowly on the wind.

Mehra nodded slowly. She supposed she had her answer:

Everything was fine.

Saying a final 'thanks', she turned from the altar and headed back down the damp stone stairs toward the path. As quickly as the sun came, it disappeared behind the clouds once more, and a gust of frigid air whipped across the mountainside.

Shuddering, Mehra hugged her arms close to her body and picked her way down the path toward the main road. Hopefully, the rain would hold off until after she arrived at the College.

She picked up her pace and jogged down the main road as quickly and as carefully as the patches of ice dotting the way would allow.

A raindrop fell on her nose just as Winterhold came within view.

Swearing, Mehra broke into a run. The sky opened up, sending a downpour of frigid rain her way and soaking her through to the skin in a matter of seconds. She ran through the city and out the other side to scramble up the stairway that led to the bridge to the College.

It wasn't until she burst through the door to the living quarters that Mehra realized that though she was freezing cold and soaked, she was barely winded from her run.

Good. She was back in shape, then.

Pleased with her recovery, Mehra quickly wiped her boots on the rug in front of the foyer to the dorms and trudged her way inside. As soon as she stepped onto the smooth tile in front of her, the soles of her boots squeaked loudly, despite her best efforts to dry them off.

Brelyna was the first to poke her head out of her room. Mehra's classmate took in her appearance and her eyes widened.

“Oh my,” she said, “I suppose it's raining finally. They sky has looked like that for a week. Would have been nice if it had waited for a few minutes, right?”

Mehra sighed and nodded. Hopefully, the spare pants and tunic in her pack hadn't gotten soaked.

She unstrapped her helm, her teeth chattering as the cold air hit her soaked hair. Grumbling, Mehra hung the helm off the arm of a nearby chair. The rest of her armor, well – it'd have to dry on the floor. It wasn't as if there were armor stands anywhere at the College.

Brelyna watched in bewilderment as Mehra stripped her armor quickly. Likely, she'd never seen how it all went together.

“I um,” she mumbled, “If you don't have a comb with you, you're welcome to borrow mine.”

Mehra tugged her chestpiece over her head. “That would be great. Want to go study, too?”

She had sex hair – tangled knots everywhere, especially at the nape of her neck. A comb would be extremely helpful.

“Sure,” Brelyna smirked. She caught Mehra's meaning immediately; they had things to talk about, away from prying eyes.

Quickly unstrapping her gauntlets and the pieces on her legs, Mehra stepped out of her waterlogged boots. Her socks came next, rolling down her legs in a soggy mess. A quick shake unrolled them, and she draped them over the arm of the chair that held her helm.

With that done, Mehra grabbed her fresh clothes and draped them over the tiny changing screen nearby. It was time to struggle out of the soaked tunic and pants that suctioned themselves to her body with the amount of water dripping from them.

“Wow, you really did get soaked,” Brelyna mumbled. “Let's get a seat next to the hearth.”

Mehra nodded. “Great idea.”

Ancano appeared in the doorway, as if summoned by her vulnerable state. Without excusing himself, he roughly brushed past Brelyna and stepped into her quarters.

Scowling, the Thalmor crossed his arms and regarded her coolly. “You were gone for a long time, apprentice. Where were you?”

His eyes darted down to her breasts – quickly, almost imperceptibly.

Hm. Apparently, Ancano worked the same as everyone else. The thought was oddly comforting.

“Look, man,” Mehra groused, “I don't know if you're trying to get a peep or what, but if you actually want to talk, can it wait until I've changed into some dry clothes?”

“You're a peasant woman. I'm hardly interested –”

“Oh, you can say what you want,” she interrupted. “Doesn't make it true. Now seriously; if you want to chat, I don't mind. Just give me a few minutes.”

She was not a peasant woman; Mehra was Morrowind nobility of an elite rank.

With that, she disappeared behind the changing screen and struggled out of her soaked clothing. Was he attracted to her? She seriously doubted it; the glance was likely a primal reflex, if anything.

“Now, if you must know,” Mehra said, “I am one of the Companions. So I'm often going between here and Whiterun. I get that you think I'm suspicious or something, but really, a few days ago I was in Morthal exterminating skeevers in a cellar for some folk who couldn't do it themselves.”

She reached for her dry pants and tugged them on. Still, her teeth couldn't stop chattering.

“It wasn't a job that involved a lot of skill,” she continued, “but it was an honest job. So, that's what I've been doing.”

There was a gulf of silence; it was almost as if Ancano didn't know what to say in reply.

“I didn't know you were one of the Companions,” Brelyna said. “That definitely explains why you're always going back to Whiterun.”

Mehra threw her shirt on and stepped out from behind the screen to see Ancano staring at her gauntlets on the floor. Though he made no move to grab them – nor did he lower himself to stoop to peer at them – it was clear that he was examining them.

They were made of dragon. Whether or not he believed her was his business.

She turned to her classmate and gave her a nod. “Yeah,” Mehra replied. “I'm a Companion. Hey, if you want me to teach you some self-defense, you're more than welcome to a lesson.”

“I might take you up on that,” Brelyna said.

Reaching up to the leather cord wound around her hair, Mehra wriggled her fingers under the knot – easier said than done – and untied it. She tilted her head to the side and squeezed as much water out of the tangled mass of hair as she could.

“Yep, you'll definitely need the comb,” Brelyna murmured. “Never seen hair that long before.”

Finally, Ancano stopped his study of her equipment and turned his eyes to meet hers.

“If you're a Companion,” he drawled, “then tell me: why do you have assassin's blades stored in your armor?”

Brelyna's eyes widened at this information and backed away from Mehra by a few steps.

“No woman should be without a blade,” Mehra answered. “Even if I get disarmed, I'll always have my magic and a blade of some sort.”

This didn't appear to satisfy him, but with nothing to go on, there wasn't much else he could say. Scowling, Ancano stepped forward in an attempt to stare her down.

“There's something off about you, apprentice,” he said. “It is only a matter of time until I find out what it is.”

Mehra shrugged, grabbed a few of her textbooks, and shoved them into her bag. Feeling bold, she turned to the Thalmor with a smirk.

“Likewise, buddy,” she replied. “I'll be watching you, too.”

Swinging her pack onto her back, Mehra left her room with Brelyna following close behind. They opened the door to the courtyard and stepped out into the cold. A quick glance out at the freezing rain had Mehra picking up her pace underneath the covered archway that led to the main hall.

The layout of the place was inconvenient, but mercifully, the walk outside was short. Entering the Hall of the Elements, they turned immediately to the right – Mehra didn't even want to look at the orb occupying a full third of the hall – opened the library door, and wound their way up the stairs to the library.

As they entered the Arcanaeum, Urag looked up from his desk and furrowed his brow.

“You look like a drowned rat, kid,” he grumbled. “Don't even think of touching a book until you're dry – hair and all.”

“Didn't plan on it,” Mehra replied.

“Good.”

With the rules made clear, Mehra motioned toward the stairs that led up to the Arcaneum's second floor. They quickly made their way up, through rows upon rows of bookshelves, and past a large seating area to make their stop in front of the hearth.

Weary, Mehra plopped down on one of the worn floor cushions – Dunmer style, probably imported – in front of the fire and slung her bag to the side. Her classmate followed suit, digging through her bag to find her comb. Quickly, she handed it to Mehra.

“That Ancano guy gives me the creeps,” Brelyna murmured.

Mehra stared down at the tangles in her hair and sighed. She ought to just cut it off, but having long hair – not prison hair, but long hair – was a novel concept to her.

“There's something off with him,” Mehra agreed. “Does anyone actually see him advising the Arch-Mage like he's supposed to?”

Brelyna shook her head.

“Me neither,” Mehra mumbled.

“He spends a lot of time watching classes and looking at that orb,” her classmate said.

“I wish I hadn't found that thing,” Mehra admitted. “Do you feel how powerful it is? When someone finds out how to tap into it, they're going to go mad with power.”

“You're that worried?”

Mehra stopped combing her hair and lifted her gaze to stare Brelyna in the eyes. “I am,” she said.

“You might have something to worry about there,” Brelyna agreed. “But enough of those worrisome things. You couldn't have told Ancano everything that you did while you were gone.”

Mehra smirked. “Well, I did have an encounter with a conjurer I met in Morthal.”

“You and these guys!” Brelyna gasped. “What was he like? I want to live vicariously through you at least.”

“He was fun,” she said. “A lot of fun. Very sexy, too. Breton men can be very surprising.”

Brelyna leaned in closer. “Another older guy?”

Mehra shrugged. She didn't know how to answer that one; Sanguine was as old as time itself, technically. If she thought of it, she supposed that the form he chose to take was somewhat young.

“I think Sam was in his thirties,” she said. “Well, that's what he looked like, anyway. I think he was a skilled conjurer, so I can't be too sure of his age.”

“What did he look like?” Brelyna asked.

“A bit shorter than me,” she replied. “Shaggy black hair, gorgeous brown eyes, pale skin. A little bit scruffy. Strong guy with a very mischievous smile. We had some drinks then got a room, as one would. He was a lot of fun.”

“Are you going to see him again, then?”

Goodness, no. If she summoned him, there was the likelihood that he'd abduct her. Although, if she considered his letter as truth – and that was suspect when it came to daedra – then maybe a little 'vacation' was all he'd give her.

If drugs and excessive drinking weren't surely tied into the deal, she'd be tempted, even if it meant seeing Sanguine in his likely terrifying true form.

“I don't think so,” she concluded. “He seemed a bit rough around the edges.”

Brelyna's face fell and she nodded slowly. “How about that guy on Solstheim?”

“Absolutely.”

She exhaled and attended to the knots in her hair, trying to rationalize how quickly she answered the question.

“Absolutely,” Brelyna repeated. “Well, I know it's too early to tell but maybe you should see what you've got in common with this guy, if there's enough of well, something, there for you to want to see him again, then maybe it's a possible match.”

Mehra opened her mouth to contradict her and closed it quickly. It wasn't Brelyna's fault that she was applying 'young person' logic to the whole thing.

Well, if Brelyna knew who the person in question was, the thought of them 'seeing' each other would never have crossed her mind.

“He is very smart,” Mehra admitted. Still, she wasn't considering it in the least.

“That's a good thing,” Brelyna nodded. “Well, at any rate, you have a choice. You can pick who you settle down with, and that's a really great thing.”

Mehra looked up and gave her a sad smile. Slowly, she nodded in agreement.

She was nearly immortal and barren. A relationship was out of the cards for her, let alone settling down.

Deciding to put the thought out of her mind, Mehra turned back to getting the tangles out of her hair. One thing was certain: she didn't have to face the future alone.

Lady Azura was there, ever watchful.

“Where are you from anyway, Brelyna?” Mehra asked. “Your hometown in Morrowind: what's your home like?”

Brelyna sighed and stared at the hearth, making Mehra wonder how many times she heard a question like that.

“I mean,” Mehra corrected, “I'm not from Morrowind. I want to know what my motherland is like, I guess.”

Her classmate nodded slowly. “I'm from Sadrith Mora,” she said. “The ruling Master-Wizard there right now is Master Ganus. It used to be Master Neloth, but he moved some time ago. I – I really don't know what you want to know about it, to be honest. I don't know what an outsider would find interesting.”

Mehra picked at the knots in her hair, keeping her head down. She felt dirty – almost manipulative – by asking these questions, but she had to know. Asking Neloth would make her look weak or sentimental, and he wasn't one for nonconstructive chat, regardless.

“What's it look like there?” she asked.

She remembered beautiful, clear water around the smooth-stoned shore; tendrils of mushrooms inching their way out across the water, used as mooring points. Vendors sold compacted balls of saltrice and small bits of meat on wooden skewers near the slave market where the slaves stood in pens to be sold. Beautiful, painted nobles, both male and female, walked through the smooth, glossy cobbled streets, clad in wispy silks and gold jewelry.

The smell of the ocean was always present there, along with the earthy smell of moss that grew in cracks and along smooth rocks that stuck out of the ground.

“It sits on the coast, so there's a lot of sea trade there.” Brelyna answered. “Not too much ash in the water these days; apparently it was very bad back around the Red Year, and my grandfather won't let me forget it. Every building is a mushroom of some sort. Telvanni wizard towers are giant mushrooms, yes. But the settlements around them are also typically made of mushroom. After the Red Year, I suppose they figured it made sense to rebuild in a manner that would be quick and easy, at least, for the House.”

“Apparently most of the city was destroyed from the blast,” she continued, “but the Council Chambers and Tel Naga – the tower that Master Neloth grew – stood strong, though parts of them withered. Then, in the center of the square, there's the statue to the Merciful Master.”

Mehra pursed her lips. The statue was certainly new. “Is this a local legend?” she asked.

“Yes,” Brelyna nodded. “When Red Mountain erupted, a wizard stood against the ash storm and held up a barrier to protect as much of the city as he could, then he recalled them to safety far away. Only a Master Wizard would be so powerful. Nobody knows who he was; some say it was the ghost of Divayth Fyr.”

She swallowed thickly. So, Divayth Fyr was dead. Why did this surprise her so much?

“A ghost?” she repeated, not trusting her voice to say too much more.

Brelyna shrugged. “That's one theory, anyway. It's a shame that Mehrunes Dagon went after him; the House could have used his wisdom in the years following the Oblivion Crisis.”

“I can imagine so,” Mehra mumbled. Dammit, Dagon. She hoped that when Erich struck him with the Finger of the Mountain, that it hurt more than anything the Daedra Lord felt before in his existence.

All things had to come to an end with mortals, yes. But Divayth Fyr deserved better.

“Anyway,” Brelyna said, “Archmagister Aryon has done a lot to help rebuild. He's one of the oldest remaining members of our House. Almost everyone respects him, which is a rare thing in House Telvanni. In-fighting can be rampant.”

“It sounds like a beautiful city,” she mused. They grew it back from the ashes; such was the Dunmer way. Still, the amount of despair her people felt, in particular, the Telvanni, had to have been crushing.

And she abandoned them to go to Akavir.

Mehra swallowed the lump in her throat. Really, what could she have done? Not even she could have held off the mountain – not for the entire island.

“I'm sure it's not what it was two hundred years go,” Brelyna shrugged. “There are some people around who remember what it used to be. But it's the place I grew up, and I feel like I'll return there again someday to live. What about you and Daggerfall?”

“I don't see myself going back unless I've got business there,” Mehra replied. “I've got a lot of bad memories from that place. Was thinking of starting over when I left there.”

Finally, she loosened what she hoped was the last knot from her hair. Tossing it over her other shoulder, Mehra gave it a thorough combing.

“Well,” Brelyna said, “for what it's worth; I think you'd be good with House Telvanni, if you ever decided to visit Morrowind. Your magic skills are what they look for in new retainers, so you'd be a good candidate. They're tough on people, but with a good work ethic, you shouldn't have too many problems.”

Mehra nodded and absently ran the comb through her hair.

“I might try it,” she said.

If she didn't get blinded by an Elder Scroll, killed by Alduin, or gods knew what else, she'd do her best to reconnect.

And Neloth was her way back in.

 

\---------------------------------

 

Sure enough, the next morning revealed an ice storm that covered the College and the entire town. A quick peek out into the courtyard in the front of the College showed pine trees heavy with ice, bowing nearly at their center under the tremendous weight of the ice. The bushes surrounding the trees drooped low, their branches touching the snow-patched ground.

And the ice on the walkway was dreadful enough that Mehra wished that she remembered how to levitate. Stuck as she was, she carefully made her way across the ice lining the pathway toward the Arcanaeum. She reached the front door of the College, opened it, and took a look around. There weren't many up so early on a weekend; in fact, a quick glance into the Hall of the Elements revealed Tolfdir sitting on a bench at the far end, and Ancano in the center, studying the orb.

The words of the apparition she saw in Saarthal haunted her. On the day she stumbled across the orb, she'd set in motion a series of events which could not be stopped.

Mehra had the sinking suspicion that Ancano and the orb would both be at the center of said events. While it was possible that her 'dragon' instincts told her so, it was really quite obvious – painfully obvious – that the Thalmor had an unhealthy obsession with the thing. And given the Thalmor quest for power as a whole, the conclusion was logical and terrifying.

She rubbed her tired eyes and opened the door to the Arcanaeum. The very thought that Ancano was researching the orb made her sleep poorly. At least when she was in Whiterun, she had the luxury of being able to sleep mostly without a care.

Sighing, Mehra wound her way up the long flight of stairs and walked into the library. She had business there – business that she didn't need Brelyna or any of her classmates knowing. Sure enough, Urag was there at the front desk, and, in all appearances, wide awake.

“Well, this will be good,” he grumbled. “I have never, ever, seen a first year apprentice come in here so early on a weekend.”

Mehra laughed and walked up to the desk.

“So, what are you researching that you don't want your peers to find out about?” Urag frowned.

“You're a direct person,” she shrugged, “so I'll be direct: I need an Elder Scroll.”

His scowl deepened. “And what do you plan to do with it?” he groused. “Do you even know what you're asking about, or are you someone's errand girl?

“It's for me,” Mehra said, “I –”

“Most asinine question I've ever been asked,” Urag hissed. “Elder Scrolls are extremely rare. If I had one, I wouldn't let an apprentice look at it. And if there were rumors of someone looking for one, I sure as hell wouldn't share it with a student. The scrolls can blind people when they look at them, kid. I'd categorize them as one of the various dangerous writings out there, just because they're so unpredictable. That answer your question?”

She looked down and slowly nodded. Really, she ought to have known better, given the College's stance on the profane and dangerous.

“You are free to read any of the College's massive collection,” he said. “A collection, might I add, which does not include an Elder Scroll. Getting one is a silly notion. Now, go back to your studies.”

Mehra nodded and thanked Urag for his time, although he'd given her nothing to go off of. Given what he said, it was likely that there was someone looking for an Elder Scroll – probably someone who got kicked out of the College, no less.

With that, she left the Arcanaeum and headed back to her room. If the College wasn't willing to help her, Neloth certainly would. She'd leave the next day for the Throat of the World to tell Paarthurnax that finding an Elder Scroll was taking much longer than they desired; she owed him that much. After that, she'd head to Whiterun, check back in with the Companions, then head to Windhelm so she could take the boat –

“Why do you need an Elder Scroll, apprentice?”

Mehra stopped in the foyer of the Hall of the Elements, her eyes wide. Composing herself, she turned around to face Ancano.

“And why are you following me, Ancano?”

He scowled and stepped forward. “I'm asking the questions. Now, I shall repeat myself: Why do you need an Elder Scroll?”

Mehra frowned as he backed her into the wall on the far side of the foyer. Nobody could see them there, and from the brief glance she had of the main hall, Tolfdir was no longer there.

She thought of the magical fork tucked safely in her bag and thought a quick request – not a prayer, of course – to Erich, that he'd share a bit of his ability to lie with her.

“Who wouldn't want one?” Mehra replied, blinking at the Thalmor as if he were clueless. “I mean, they've maybe always existed, and they do strange things to time. Wouldn't that be a great study? I just want to look at one. I'd get good marks for life, I think!”

He furrowed his brow in confusion. “You just want to look at one?” he repeated. “Are you that ignorant that you've never heard that they can blind people who try to read them? Even then, the language of said scroll would be of the Gods; you would have no hope of deciphering even the smallest characters on it.”

“I just want to try,” she mumbled, looking down at the floor. Was he buying the 'dumb' act?

“You're in your twenties,” Ancano scoffed. “What would you even know about these sorts of things? Read a book, for Gods' sakes. Then, you'd realize how ignorant you truly are.”

Apparently he did believe that she meant what she said. Mehra glanced up to meet his eyes. How old was he, anyway? He had to be maybe seventy at most.

Well, as long as he believed that she was young and dumb – and didn't have any real use for an Elder Scroll – everything would be fine.

“Just leave me alone,” Mehra grumbled. “I don't know why you have to be so mean to everyone.”

“Mean?” he repeated, scoffing at her. “You don't even know what I'm capable of, girl. Now, run off and waste someone else's time.”

She returned his nasty look, spun on her heel, and barged through the College's front door to step outside. Once she was certain she was out of Ancano's sight, Mehra's scowl twisted into a smirk.

If he didn't believe that she was smart enough to have an actual purpose for the Elder Scroll, then it made her job of dodging him all the more easy. Mehra was just glad that she was able to keep up the act without snapping at him, a feat which would have been impossible when she was younger.

Pleased with her performance, Mehra carefully picked her way across the frozen courtyard and opened the door that led to the Hall of Attainment. She closed the door quietly behind her, padded over to her room, and removed her enchanting primer from her bag to quietly read while she waited for her classmates to awaken.

Reviewing the essentials of enchanting before a planned trip to Solstheim was in her best interest, after all. As she thumbed through the book, Mehra found the entire thing fascinating. She never took the time to study magic outside of the types she could use for immediate gratification when she was younger. It was a very shortsighted thing to do; she felt the immense magical power woven into the very fabric of Neloth's robes –

When she removed them.

Mehra cleared her throat and tried to focus on the words in front of her, but ultimately failed. Frowning, she turned her gaze toward her pack, which held Sanguine's token. She wasn't sure how, but this bout of lust surely had to be his fault.

“How goes the study?”

Mehra blinked and looked up to see Onmund – the sole Nord at the College, besides Tolfdir – standing in the doorway, his eyes half-closed with tiredness.

“Interesting, so far,” Mehra replied.

He nodded in agreement. “Got a topic picked out for your paper, yet?” he asked.

A paper?

Shit. She'd forgotten that.

“Judging by the look on your face,” Onmund mused, “that's a no. Did you forget?”

Mehra sighed. “Sure did.”

He ran his hand through his messy, straw-like hair. “I'm glad I mentioned it, then,” he said. “Um, let me know if you want to study or look for sources together sometime or something. I don't want to compete against everyone like some of the others. I just want to learn – from everyone.”

“I agree completely,” she replied.

“Y-you do?” he stammered. “That's uh – you're very talented, I mean. Between you and me: I think your destruction skills could knock some of the seniors on their butts, even.”

Mehra laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “They're seniors though,” she said. “Well, we've all got our thing that we like to do the most, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Onmund said, “I uh – I'll see you around, then.”

With that, he ducked his head out of her room and left. Shrugging at his sudden disappearance, Mehra turned back to her book. As soon as she found where she'd left off, a set of footsteps leading up to her doorway stopped her once again.

Mehra turned her gaze up to see the Arch-Mage standing in front of her. He regarded her for a moment, the look on his face unreadable.

“Apprentice,” he said. “I would like a moment of your time.”

“Of course, Master,” Mehra replied.

Master Aren motioned for her to follow him. Suspicious of what Ancano would do with her things if she left them unattended, she put her book into her bag and shouldered it. He led her upstairs to his quarters, away from prying eyes. Leading her to a pair of chairs to the left that overlooked the alchemical garden, he pulled a chair out to face the other at an off-angle and motioned for her to sit.

“Last we spoke,” he said, “you had the notion of creating a staff out of dragon bone. How has your study gone so far?”

Mehra smiled and sat down in the offered chair. “It went very well,” she said. “I was able to get it accomplished and the person I gave it to really liked it. Of course, I couldn't carve it by myself; Eorlund Gray-mane created it from my designs.”

“Eorlund Gray-mane?” he asked. “Isn't he the Companions' smith? How did you get access to his talents?”

“I'm one of the Companions,” Mehra replied. Saying it filled her with pride; the Companions were well known for being just.

The Arch-Mage blinked in surprise. “Well, that explains the sword,” he mused. “Do you have any of your drawings with you? I'd love to have a look.”

Mehra nodded and leaned to the side to search through her bag. “I don't want anyone to get their hands on these,” she mumbled, “brought my bag with me to keep snoopers out. The staff is meant to be one-of-a-kind.”

She pulled the sheets of paper out from her enchanting book and handed them to Master Aren.

“I'm not so selfish usually,” Mehra sighed. “But the project was special.”

There was no way that Neloth would want anyone else to have the same staff, after all. And if she were honest, Mehra didn't want anyone else to have one, either.

Of course, she brought her bag with her to ensure that nobody saw the three daedric artifacts in it. Azura's Star had been through enough from the College, and possessing an artifact belonging to Sanguine or Sheogorath could get her expelled.

Mehra watched as the Arch-Mage thumbed through the drawings in interest. After some time, he nodded. “Oh, this design is wonderful,” he murmured. “Very traditional. Are you from Morrowind?”

Mehra shook her head. “Daggerfall,” she replied. “The gift was for someone from Morrowind. He is a traditionalist with very strong national pride.”

Well, that was a very mild way to put it.

“The design is respectful and very traditional,” he confirmed. “I'm certain your friend was very flattered.”

“He definitely liked it,” Mehra said, though she wasn't sure that the word 'friend' applied to Neloth. He probably had no friends.

“Where is he located?” Master Aren asked.

“Solstheim.”

Oops.

Mehra bit her lip and looked down at the floor in embarrassment, certain that she made the whole thing look much worse than it actually was. The Arch-Mage nodded slowly, confirming that she gave him the wrong impression.

“Now, unfortunately, this discussion is not the purpose of our meeting,” Master Aren said. “Something has been brought to my attention that I find somewhat alarming. Urag has informed me that you sought him for information on where to find an Elder Scroll. Is this true?”

Oh, no. This was much worse than she thought. Wanting to get the conversation over with, she sat up and looked him in the eyes.

Mehra nodded. “Yes, Master, I did.”

“I see,” he frowned. “Unfortunately, I have to let you know that such things are banned here. If you were to come in possession of an Elder Scroll and used it for research purposes, it would result in your expulsion. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Master Aren.”

He furrowed his brow in concern. “This wizard you met hasn't put you up to this, has he?”

“No, Master. This was my idea.”

“You're not doing this to impress him, are you?”

Mehra shook her head. If he only knew how important this was, maybe he'd change his mind and help her, but a large part of her doubted it.

“Mehra,” he frowned, “you must answer me in words.”

“He didn't cross my mind when I thought of getting a scroll, Master,” she said. “I regret bringing it up and am very sorry to have concerned you.”

The Arch-Mage let out a deep sigh and nodded. “You strike me as a genuinely good person,” he admitted. “But I have seen this happen before: an apprentice meets someone powerful dabbling in the dark arts and it leads them to ruin and death. I do not know this man you are seeing, but please, take caution. You are young and talented.”

She wasn't seeing Neloth. She'd been to his place twice, and the first time, he berated her for being a quitter. Deciding that it wasn't worth arguing over, she nodded in defeat.

“I will be careful, Master,” Mehra said.

“Thank you,” he replied. “Now, I am not going to dictate your plans, but if you must leave –”

The Arch-Mage paused, leaving the unspoken question in the air:

Where was she going?

“I need to head back to Whiterun to check in with the Companions,” Mehra said, telling a half-truth.

She was sick of lying to people. As the Arch-Mage agreed and wished her safe travels, she quietly nodded, hating that she lied to him when he clearly cared about her well-being.

Unable to do anything about it, she stood, tucked her staff drawings back into her book, and shouldered her bag.

Mehra left the College and made her way to Ivarstead, confident that eventually, she was going to be expelled from Winterhold.

 

\------------------------

 

The dungeon was unimaginative, boring, and clearly designed by a blockhead. He heard the typical screams of the damned, the rattle of chains, and the sobbing of captives.

Sheogorath descended the cliché, poorly lit spiral staircase that led downward to the lower holding cells. Before he reached the bottom, he surmised that it would be windowless and damp, with vermin crawling the walls. Each cell would be solitary, and lucky prisoners would have a bucket and a pile of straw.

Sure enough, he reached the bottom of the staircase, and he saw that his prediction was true.

Ugh, how boring.

He glanced down the long corridor of cells, certain that the prisoner he sought would be at the far end. Wanting to get the visit over with, Sheogorath strode down the hall lined with cells, ignoring the desperate – and quite predictable – catcalls sent his way. These people and daedra were lonely, and their captor wasn't a looker in the least.

Reaching the end of the hall, he turned to the cell on the left and grinned when he saw his target inside. He waited quietly until the prisoner looked up at him.

“I didn't like you, you know,” Sheogorath said, not bothering to introduce himself.

The now-mortal shifted in his chains, wincing with the movement. Bruises covered his split-colored skin, and sunken eyes – one red, one amber – peered up from their sockets. The King of Rape clearly hadn't been kind or gentle with his captive.

“Who are you?” the captive asked.

Sheogorath smiled and leaned on his cane. Of course he wouldn't remember him; without his divine sight, he didn't perceive much. Shrugging, he tapped his cane on the door of the cell to break it open, and stepped inside to stare down at him.

“I am the original deceiver,” he answered.

The liar shrunk back slightly, almost imperceptibly. “You appear different from when we last convened, Madgod. Taller, for one.”

Chuckling, Sheogorath knelt down and hooked his finger under the deceiver's chin. “Am I beautiful, darling?” he mocked.

Vivec closed his eyes and allowed his head to fall back to rest against the dungeon wall. Sheogorath didn't have to know the answer. Erich as a mortal was handsome; Erich as a god – a real, god; not Vivec and his 'stolen divinity' – was beautiful beyond compare.

“I don't believe you're the same individual,” Vivec clarified.

“Perceptive,” Sheogorath admitted. “No, I am not. I'm new to divinity – only two hundred or so years old – but I think I'm getting the hang of it.”

“Jyggalag let a mortal ascend?”

Sheogorath beamed. “Indeed,” he said. “He was desperate to get out. I was, too. It worked out well.”

“And Baar Dau?”

“Fell,” he shrugged. “Thousands dead. Whole cities destroyed, land ruined. Argonians invaded after that. Slaughtered the Telvanni. Those wizards need to come out of their towers and start procreating if they want to survive.”

If she wanted it, he could give Mehra the gift of fertility. It would create a line of Dunmer Dragonborn descending from her. Really, such a thing could change the course of history. He doubted that she'd want that. If she were a different mortal, he'd do it anyway, but with her, things were different. He wouldn't do it to her without her permission.

He glanced down at Vivec and saw the man's face grow somber, then angry as he turned his gaze back up to his face.

“Don't you get angry at me,” Sheogorath scoffed. “You could have destroyed that moon. Had dozens of chances to do it. By keeping it up there as a threat, perhaps you really were as cruel– ”

“I should have destroyed it,” he spat. “But you were not among the gods my people deserved.”

Sheogorath crossed his arms and smirked. “Everyone deserves a test every now and then. Seems that you utterly failed yours, False God.”

He was met with silence. The Tribunal failed in their quest to become the gods that the Chimer – Dunmer, whatever – needed.

“I'm toeing the line as best I can,” he continued. “I certainly learned from your mistakes. While I interfere, I mostly do as my predecessor did.”

“Mostly?”

Ah. There was the rub of it. Even without his divinity, Vivec was a sharp one.

“The Incarnate walks,” he explained. “Well, stumbles. Getting better at walking. It could be likened to a limping jog now – a bit gimpy, really. I suppose you could call me her temporary crutch.”

The look on Vivec's face was even more grim than it had been when he learned of the fate of the Dunmer. Apparently, Mehra had quite the reputation back in the day.

“She's still around?”

Sheogorath nodded. “Yes,” he replied. “Even prettier than the day I met her, I think. Quiet now; mature, I suppose. A bit boring at times with her whole 'Erich, let's not make a scene' and 'Erich, how about we' quietly infiltrate this place' and 'Erich, I don't want this Dragon tongue power'.”

Vivec tilted his head in curiosity. “Erich?” he said. “Was that your name?”

He nodded. “You want a list of titles? You mortals seem to like that stuff.”

Vivec shrugged. He didn't like that he shrugged; he was impressive, even as a mortal. He deserved more than a shrug.

“Erich Heartfire. Hero of Kvatch,” he said. “Savior of Bruma. Knight Brother of the Blades. Gray Fox. Listener of the Dark Brotherhood. Champion of Cyrodiil. Slayer of Mannimarco. The one who personally scarred Mehrunes Dagon.”

“It takes a lot to impress me,” Vivec admitted. “You seem to have lived a colorful life, at least, and with all the upending you caused, it's no wonder that Jyggalag chose you to break the curse. But you were a pawn, all the same.”

He crossed his arms and scowled. “I had nothing left to lose at the time.”

Vivec nodded and gave him a knowing smile. “She got to you, then? She destroyed a lot of what she touched. Love isn't necessarily – ”

“You be quiet,” Sheogorath hissed. “You have no room to talk, with the situation you've gotten yourself into.” He motioned to the chains that bound the false god's wrists and ankles, then to Molag Bal's dungeon.

“Should have gone after Sanguine,” he continued. “He's got a gentle side, unlike your master here. He may have even shared.”

Vivec had nothing to say to that. He forced himself to relax – he was traumatized, but not yet broken – and gave him a critical look.

“Dragon Tongue,” he frowned. “So, she discovered her gift then, and Alduin has returned?”

“Yes. The situation is delicate. Like baby eyelashes, or tiny seedlings, or something.”

Vivec closed his eyes again. “And she holds our fate once more,” he mused.

“She has a powerful and ancient help this time,” Sheogorath said. “And I'm not referring to myself.”

The captive stared off to the side, deep in thought as if trying to recall something. “Ah, yes,” he concluded. “Master Aryon helped her before.”

Sheogorath smirked and shook his head. “No,” he said, “Master Neloth will help her.”

“Neloth? The old wizard who grew half of Sadrith Mora? His keep was there for thousands of years.”

“Younger now,” he supplied. “Living on Solstheim. If he was old, he wouldn't be able to fuck her halfway across his tower like he did. What a champ; I'm certain she'll return to him.”

Vivec winced at the notion. Clearly, he said too much.

A rattle sounded from higher up in the dungeon, an unearthly growl following soon after. The sound of hooves clattered down the winding dungeon stairs until Molag Bal himself stood in front of them – gray, sinewy, dressed in a simple loincloth.

“Weren't expecting visitors?” Sheogorath asked. “I'll give you a chance to get dressed, if you'd like.”

Molag Bal hissed through rows of fangs, hot breath curling out in puffs of steam from his shapeless nose in the cold of the dungeon.

“Who are you?” he hissed, “And why are you in my dungeon? You must want to be here if you found your way in.”

Well, yes. He wanted to be there because he went and did as he pleased.

“And since you want to be here,” Molag Bal growled, “I'll be happy to oblige you, pretty thing.”

He glanced down to eye the growing bulge against the daedra's loincloth. Perhaps, the King of Rape was as dressed as he ever cared to be.

“Is that the way you welcome your new brother?” Sheogorath pouted. “I'm sad that you don't recognize me.”

Molag Bal's tail swished behind him in irritation. “Then who are you?”

“Sheogorath.”

He stomped his cloven foot, causing the keep to shake. “Do you realize what you've done?” he shouted. “Jyggalag is free, you fool! He gave godhood – true godhood – to a mortal in order to escape! When he comes back to –”

“He won't.”

Molag Bal leaned in, his eyes narrowed. “How do you know?” he hissed.

“Well, it's been two hundred years,” Sheogorath shrugged. “If he hasn't caused trouble yet, I suppose he won't. Besides, what kind of mortal could resist the temptation to become a god?”

He turned a sly eye to Vivec, who backed up further against the wall. Clearly, he wanted nothing to do with their discussion.

“I'll grant you that,” Molag Bal grumbled. “So, what brings the new Sheogorath to my dungeon?”

“A wager.”

“A wager?” he replied. “Your wagers always mean trouble. But, you are new to this. Certainly I will have an advantage. What do you want?”

Sheogorath fought to hide a smirk. Molag Bal was an idiot compared to him.

“If I win,” he shrugged, “you release your false-god pet to me.”

Molag Bal scowled. The idea was distasteful to him, but his ego would get in the way. He'd accept Sheogorath's wager.

There was no way he'd lose.

Sheogorath liked collecting nice and unique things. Vivec was as good as his.

 


	23. Chapter 23

A/n: I guess this is a warning that there's drug use in this chapter, but I mean, Sanguine is drugs, sex, and rock-n-roll, you know?

 

* * *

 

    "Even Gods dislike the absolute, for it stinks of something larger than themselves.” -Sotha Sil

 

* * *

 

 

3E 427. Vvardenfell.

 

He never dreamed much. Neloth dealt in facts and theory, never fantasy. When he did dream, it was usually something commonplace; researching, searching for the Oghma Infinium, creating new spells.

His dreams during the late Third Era turned ugly. Even sleeping with his eyes open – a rarity with his old and withered body – proved to be ineffective at halting the dreams. They were often all the same; he was at a guest big banquet, unable to speak or move. A tall, black skinned figure in a golden mask sat at the head of the table, as if a king.

When he turned to look at the guests of the banquet – all Dunmer, he noted – they were dead. But the masked man continued as if they were alive. He noticed Neloth, stood, and made his way over to him.

His form was incomprehensible. From the details Neloth remembered, he was extremely tall and strong, with long, bloody claws. He was decorated as a king – golden bracelets, golden necklaces, and a large, golden ring in each nipple adorned him, accompanying an expensive belted cloth of the deepest crimson silk.

“Come to me, my son,” the masked figure said. “Your current status is nothing compared to what you would have with me. Let the lost House rise again.”

He never had the power to reply. His mind screamed that he was a Telvanni Mage Lord. Nobody spoke to him in such a manner.

“No,” the unknown horror laughed, “that is not your house. It won't be anymore.”

The masked figure knelt down over him and held out a torch. “Take it,” he said. “Take my torch and join me. Join House Dagoth.”

Dagoth? No.

His hair stood on end. The devil himself wanted him to join his cause.

Then, the dream ended. It recurred every few months, increasing in frequency.

Whatever happened when the Tribunal went to do their ritual was worse than the Temple let on. Someone other than he needed to speak up and let people know what was really going on.

As it was, saying such things would be done at the expense of one's life, Telvanni Master or not.

Time passed, and with the increase in frequency of the dreams, there was an increase in detail. Eventually, he was instructed to take and absorb souls to regain his youth in order to kill the Incarnate, and that he would know which one they were upon sight.

As usual, Neloth didn't do what was told of him. He went about his business for the rest of the year, wondering if others had been contacted in a similar manner, but too afraid to bother saying anything.

He rubbed his sunken eyes and sighed as he tried to focus on his reading. For several minutes, the Argonian slave in the corner eyed him in worry. The superstitious thing was going to give itself an ulcer. Sighing, he permitted it to speak with a wave of his hand.

“Lord Master?” it murmured. Given the timbre of its voice, he supposed it was female. Truthfully, he couldn't tell their gender apart until they spoke, same as with the cats.

“Your sleep has been unwell,” she continued. “This one worries for you. Is it omens, Great Lord?”

“Omens?” Neloth replied. “Why? Have you had disturbing dreams, lately?”

The slave opened her mouth then closed it. Clearly, her answer was 'yes', but she had trouble formulating a reply.

“I see a great evil,” she finally concluded. “It wants to kill all foreigners and turn the Dunmer into ash.”

Neloth nodded slowly. “So it speaks to you as well,” he mused. “It is quite likely that it speaks to thousands on this island. You realize that the Temple calls this 'soul sickness', and will correct or execute anyone showing signs of it, yes?”

The slave gasped and backed away in fear. Clearly, his words had a profound effect on her. Perhaps, she worried that he'd turn her in.

“The Temple will fight this evil, yes?” she asked.

Neloth laughed. “This is the end-times, child. The Temple can't even wipe their own arse. When it comes, I'll go down fighting and you damn well better as well.”

“Great Master, your fellow Master Dreloth has come by to request an audience.”

He blinked and looked up at the archer guard who stood in the doorway, breathless from running to make his announcement. What in the world made that harlot decide to stop by his tower, of all places? What was more shocking was the fact that she announced herself.

“Show her in,” he grumbled. “She has thirty seconds to explain herself.”

“Yes, Master.” The archer saluted him and made haste from the room.

Neloth watched as his Argonian slave backed to the corner of the room and made herself very still. The new Master had a terrifying reputation among the beasts – probably had something to do with the lizard-skin boots.

In the next minute, the guard came back and announced the woman properly. Much to his shock, she waited until the announcement was finished before entering the room.

What in Oblivion was the get-up she wore? Some of the most expensive and powerful enchantments he'd seen accompanied a pair of incredibly tight netch leather pants and a set of Argonian skin boots. And her face was painted like a dremora.

Neloth didn't know what her intent was with her dress, but if he had to guess, it was a statement of some sort. Were he younger, he may have asked her to do a slow turn, just for the lower half, of course. It would have been a mere look and nothing more; Neloth didn't want Aryon's leftovers.

“Master Neloth,” the woman began, “I have come to request your support in my most recent bid. As you may know, Dagoth Ur has made a power move, recently. His influence has reached out to people within towns and cities; he has taken control of the minds of the weak. Recent events have brought to light a lost prophecy from the Dissident Priests, to which I strongly believe I may apply. There have been visions of my arrival.”

She paused in her speech – Aryon surely wrote it and had her memorize it to some degree – and Neloth rubbed his tired eyes. This was damned boring.

“What are you going on about?” Neloth grumbled. “Prophecies, visions, superstitious jibber-jabber? Don't interrupt me with that nonsense. Go bother some bone-through-the-nose shaman or bug-eating wise woman.”

He watched as the girl did her best to hide a scowl.

“My request is simple,” she continued. “Already, I have the support of Masters Aryon, Therana, Dratha, and Baladas. I wish to have your support in my bid to become Hortator of House Telvanni.”

Neloth choked. Surely, she wasn't serious. “No, no, no,” he hissed. “Not another word. What the hell are you talking about? And who do you think you are?”

She stepped forward, causing the guards stationed in the room to draw their bows on her. If she so much as twitched at him wrong, they'd kill her.

“I was about to tell you before I was interrupted,” Mehra scowled. “I am Nerevar reborn. Divayth Fyr cured my corprus disease and I am now immune to most everything, including age.”

He opened his mouth to snap a retort, but stopped short when she removed her glove and showed him a most peculiar ring. Tribunals' tits! Surely, it wasn't –

Returning her scowl, Neloth grabbed her hand and stared at the ring intently. As soon as his hand brushed against its band, he knew:

She was the one that Dagoth Ur entreated him to kill. And though Neloth didn't do a damned thing that anyone told him to, he was quite tempted on account that the outlander bitch was bad for business.

Sighing, Neloth shook his head. “Hortator? War leader of House Telvanni? Is that necessary?” he asked, knowing that if it was part of a prophecy, then it surely was.

“Why doesn't anyone tell me about these things?” he grumbled.

Neloth released her hand and looked up to meet her expectant gaze. “So. Do you want the job?” he asked. “Are you qualified?”

She nodded quietly.

“Good,” he hissed. “Then go ahead. I don't care. Be the Hortator. Now go away.”

With that, Neloth turned back to his book, ignoring the new Master's bewildered look. After waiting for him to say something more – and he wouldn't – she turned to leave, giving him a glance of the rest of her. He stared for a brief second. Yes, her backside was memorable, at the very least. But he was much too old for such things, beyond looking.

Weeks later, when he learned of Gothren's untimely assassination, Neloth admitted that at the very least, the urchin got results.

 

* * *

 

 

4E 201. Spiral Skein.

 

The Red Year was tough. She lost a lot of solid people that year and as it was, it was difficult for them to re-organize. But at the same time, it was beneficial for the Tribunal – the real Tribunal – to have the loyalty of the Dunmer people once again.

On the day that Azura changed the skin of the Chimer, she said that it was done so that they would look more like the Daedric Princes to whom they swore their loyalty and to be reminded of their heritage. And it was true: Azura, Boethiah, and Mephala could pass for Dunmer well enough, minus the unique oddities that made them unmistakable as daedra.

Mephala stood and looked out across her web at her Ebony Blade, her arms crossed. Above her head, where her third, smallest set of eyes could watch it, her daintiest set of spider legs knitted a –

Well, something. She didn't know what it was, yet. There were thousands of such objects that she created throughout thousands of years, each one displaying a different skill. Maybe, this one would be a silken cowl for Boethiah. They could enchant it with the souls of the damned together and create something very lovely. Maybe, she'd enchant it herself and give it to the Prince of Plots as a present. Surprises pleased Boethiah.

It was a pity about the Threads of the Webspinner that Sanguine made. While it couldn't be helped that they were destroyed in Vivec City, she certainly hoped that each piece would be reborn quickly so that they could be dispersed into the world once again. Sanguine deserved his 'seeds' to be sown, at any rate. He created them at the height of their affair, and they were lovely little tokens from him.

The worst part was the disappearance of her Ebony Blade; her last champion skipped town entirely, and his tower was overrun by looters in the centuries that followed. Eventually, the blade ended up in Skyrim in the cellar of Dragonsreach under a weak ward. While she could burst through the fabric of space and free it herself, Mephala preferred without exception to have a champion free her artifacts that lay hidden.

Interestingly enough, she felt the presence of Azura's Incarnate within the city that trapped and warded her Ebony blade. All she needed was to get the attention of someone who would act out enough so that the money-hungry girl would come to their aid.

As it was, the Jarl's young son was a perfect target, given his penchant for exploring the keep unattended. Certain that her plan was working, she traveled toward the old, wooden keep and lay in wait for the child to come downstairs to listen to 'The Whispering Lady' once again.

Mephala paced inside the locked room via a tether to her Ebony blade and reached out with her mind toward the child. Yes, with enough ruckus, Azura's Incarnate – a former follower of the Morag Tong; a knower of her ways – would come to the keep in an attempt to fix the problem. Then, the blade would be free.

As she predicted, the child made his way downstairs to the cellar door. The terrified thing placed his ear up against the heavy, barred wood, his heart racing.

“Whispering Lady?” he called, his voice but a mere whisper.

“I have another secret, child,” she replied. “Listen well.”

He stood with rapt attention at the door. Good little thing.

“Your father worships Talos,” Mephala said. “You must know; he hates the Thalmor. He's terrified about getting run out of the city by them, or by the Stormcloaks.”

“I am afraid, Whispering Lady,” he confided. “I-I thought my father to be strong. What about the Dragonslayer?”  
  
Who? Mephala didn't bother much with this place; Morrowind was of much more interest to her.

“Think of this Dragonslayer,” she ordered. “Think of what they look like and I will know of whom you speak.”

The child conjured an image of a tall, slim Dunmer woman with black hair and deep ebony skin. Azura's Champion?

So, she must have learned of her dragon blood. The threads of fate wove together in a fascinating way, lately. Studying them in detail and how they wove around the Incarnate was of immediate importance.

“She has a home here,” the child said.

“You'd better hope that Dragonslayer succeeds,” she replied. “There are much more dangerous things afoot than Stormcloaks, child.”

He pursed his lips and furrowed his brow in worry. “Dragons,” he whispered.

“Indeed,” Mephala chuckled. “Dragons.”

Soon, he would start acting out. With luck, it would draw the attention of the Nerevarine, and her interference and greed would free her Ebony Blade. It didn't matter that Azura's Champion would wield it, either; they shared among themselves in their so-called 'Tribunal'.

She scowled at the thought of the word. The three mortals who appropriated their titles ruined many of her plans. A mortal was never meant to –

She felt a tug on her web and frowned. Who dared enter her domain?

“That is all for today, child,” Mephala said, then promptly severed the connection.

With a scowl, Mephala left Dragonsreach behind and traveled the long thread through the Ebony blade back to her home.

Opening an Oblivion door, Mephala stepped through and blinked at the sight that greeted her. Red rose petals littered the floor of the void she ruled and lay scattered throughout her web.

She smiled at the interruption.

Sanguine.

She hadn't heard from him in a long time. Mephala felt a tug on her web and whirled around to see him standing there with a cheeky grin, tugging on a string.

“Hey, legs,” he cooed, eyeing the long, black spider legs that sprouted from her back. An unbidden memory of him caressing them as he lay with her came to her mind. They had quite an affair, years ago.

“What brings you here?” she asked, knowing full well what he wanted. If it wasn't some sort of mind altering substance, Sanguine wanted sex.

“Figured I'd visit,” Sanguine shrugged. “I've been visiting a few of my friends lately. I must say; you're looking lovely as ever. Have you molted lately?

Mephala chuckled. “No,” she replied. “I'm due soon, though.” Really, it was obvious when she was due for a molt; her skin looked dull, and her hair was oily and matted.

“Will you let me watch?” he asked.

She looked at him and raised a brow. “Why? Do you have some sort of 'woman removes her skin' fetish?”

“I mean,” he grinned, “when you showed me last time, we had some damn good sex afterward.”

So, he did want sex. Typical Sanguine. But he was right; they fit together so perfectly, and his prowess was undeniable.

“Have you met the new Sheogorath yet?” he asked.

Mephala froze. A new Sheogorath?

“Jyggalag escaped,” she frowned. “Is that what you're telling me?”

Sanguine nodded.

“I told everyone that letting the Greymarch happen was stupid,” she hissed. “I knew he would find a way to escape. But no! He had to be taunted on top of being turned insane.” It was one of the few times she disagreed with Azura and Boethiah, as well as her brother, Hermaeus Mora.

“I believed you,” Sanguine replied.

“I know you did,” she sighed. Mephala sauntered over to him and peered up at him. Gently, she reached up to grasp his chin.

“You always mind me,” she purred. “That's what I appreciate about you.” She pulled him in for a hungry kiss before quickly stepping back.

He blinked and breathed deeply, clearly in want of her. Even though she loved sex – especially with him – he had to earn it, after such a long time away from her.

“The new Sheogorath is someone you'll like, though,” Sanguine said.

“Oh?”

“You gave him your Ebony Blade back at the end of the Third Era,” he nodded. “Remember Erich Heartfire?”

“That's a surprise,” Mephala admitted, “and I usually have a very close eye on these things. I adored him – for a mortal, that is.”

Sanguine conjured a pipe and lit the contents inside with a quick spell. Putting the pipe to his lips, he gave it a long drag before exhaling a puff of smoke. The scent of an exotic new drug quickly filled the area.

“The mantle looks good on him,” Sanguine said. “He's absolutely beautiful as an immortal. Tried him out, by the way; he fucks good and hard like an animal. You'd love him.”

She expected no less of the Prince of Insanity. Perhaps she'd have to pay him a visit. Or, she could find a way to invite him to her domain, where she'd have the advantage in case he decided to do something insane.

Sanguine took a puff of his pipe and exhaled. With a smirk, he held the tip of the pipe in front of her face, expecting her to try whatever concoction it was that he had in it.

“Here,” he chuckled, “put this in your mouth.”

“What is it?” she asked, not sure whether she wanted it or not.

Sanguine grinned. “Specially refined greenmote from the Shivering Isles. Very rare, considering how closed off the place has been since it was created.”

Greenmote? She heard a lot about the stuff, but wasn't one for such things, most of the time.

Mephala considered it for a moment then shrugged. It was like him to come back and act as if they hadn't had thousands of years apart. A quick glance up to his mischievous eyes made her realize that she missed him.

“You're trouble,” she murmured, “always trouble, Desire.”

Sighing, she leaned forward to try the pipe. She inhaled deeply, a sweet taste drifting over her tongue.

“You like trouble,” Sanguine said.

She removed the pipe from her lips and he immediately leaned down to kiss her again, sharing the smoke she inhaled between them. As his tongue darted out to taste her, she made up her mind:

He could take her. Nobody understood her sexual side quite like he did.

They pulled apart, and Sanguine wrapped his arm around her shoulder. She liked the feel of him – big, tall, and so muscular. Though her power was leagues stronger than his, there was something about him that made her willing to surrender herself to him.

Sanguine led her to one of the nests she built in one of the many corners of her domain. The dance was the same; they'd undress, spend hours together, and then, he'd leave. Mephala didn't mind.

“How are your friends?” he asked, surprising her that he decided to extend their conversation.

“Azura keeps to herself as usual,” she sighed. “Malacath has been going as he has for a long time. And Boethiah is absolutely delighted with the mortals and their current politics.”

Sanguine laughed as he lay down in her nest, pulling her to lie on top of him. His armor disappeared in a flash, and in its place appeared a simple, silken robe.

“I figured Boethiah would be having fun,” he mused. “They have a thing for anarchy and intrigue, and there's plenty of that going around these days.”

Mephala nodded and curled up against him, allowing herself to enjoy a small comfort that the mortals indulged in.

“And what news do you have?” she asked.

Sanguine took a quick puff of the pipe then put it in front of her face once more. This time, she took it without hesitation. The greenmote was nice; it gave her all sorts of ideas for projects that she could weave.

One of those projects could be a hooded cape for Sanguine. Or maybe, she could make a rose-embroidered set of robes for his conjurer form. An all-lace dress for Azura would be lovely, as well – in her favorite peach color, of course.

“Sheogorath gave me a mortal,” Sanguine replied.

Mephala furrowed her brow in confusion. “Not that you're dumb or anything,” she mumbled, “but we all know that Sheogorath can think and plan circles around many of us if we're not careful. How did you win a wager against him?”

The arm around her shoulder gave her a gentle squeeze, reassuring her that he understood what she meant. Mephala was always careful with her words; they could weave a tangled web with one careless sentence.

“There was no wager,” he answered. “He met this drunkard mortal and decided that he'd fit in well with my people. He gave the guy to me as a present.”

Her eyes widened in shock. That was quite unexpected. Nobody really did such things, unless they were allies or lovers.

“I'm going to keep an eye on him, Sanguine,” Mephala said. “It may be genuine, but it is very strange.”

He nodded in agreement, then broke out into a sly grin.

“Also, I fucked the Nerevarine in a backwater tavern earlier this week,” Sanguine confessed.

Her jaw dropped in shock. “Did she know it was you?” she asked.

He shook his head, his grin widening. “Not until the morning after,” he said. “Signed my note with my pseudonym and gave her a rose so she can call me next time she wants a bit of fun. With everything going on with the dragons, I figured she needed to release some pent up energy.”

“You're going to get in trouble with someone one of these days,” Mephala sighed. “Azura is – well, I don't know what she will do, honestly.”

“I didn't knock her up,” he argued, “didn't claim her, and I made sure to treat her well. I didn't step on Azura's toes on the least.”

“So long as you were transparent, I suppose it's alright,” she shrugged. “But you must know that she loves that mortal as her own child.”

She didn't have to look up to know that Sanguine was rolling his eyes. Azura was always especially vain around him, and refused to take part in any of his fun. All he wanted was a bit of attention, as he always did; Sanguine fed off of being the life of the party, and Azura's attitude toward him was always lukewarm at best.

And if he wasn't careful, Sanugine would get the wrong kind of attention. It was good, then, that he stopped by.

The last thing Mephala wanted was trouble between her allies. She'd smooth things over if necessary.

 

* * *

 

“It went poorly.”

Paarthurnax waited quietly for the Dovahkiin to elaborate. He peered up at her and fought the urge to shake his head. It was the same for every joor who visited his strunmah.

“Why do they always climb this peak?” Paarthurnax mused. He watched as the Dovahkiin straddled the peak of the mountain, trembling in fear.

“I'm not the only one to do this?” she asked. Her eyes were wide, her breathing irregular.

“They all do it,” he replied. “I do not see the value in such danger.”

On three sides of the peak alone was a sheer drop long enough to kill a fragile mortal body. Paarthurnax walked over to the peak and stuck his head in the air to make it level with the Dovahkiin's line of gaze. Huffing, he sat back down on his haunches and crouched low to emulate the height of the average joor.

“Joor,” he chided, “there is no difference in sight from the small amount of added height.”

“Oh,” the fahliil murmured. With quaking legs, she climbed the short distance back down the peak to land in the soft snow below, her descent the most graceful of the joor which visited him.

Paarthurnax felt a twinge of regret for saying such a thing to her, but her safety was more important. Thankfully, Mehra made her way to the shelter of the eroded wall at the peak. As soon as she nestled herself into the circle of the rock, Paarthurnax turned to position himself against the bitter wind in order to shield her from it.

Her thu'um was strong; her body, much weaker, though she had a considerable amount of strength for one of the joor. In fact, Paarthurnax was delighted to hear of her path to enlightenment, what she called the 'Seven Trials of the Incarnate'. Passing these trials provided her immunity and power well beyond the dreams of the average joor.

And it seemed that she learned the Way of the Voice on her own, its tenants passed on to her through the punishment which was given to her by the Deyra Kulaan Azura.

Her temperance and determination made him glow with pride. She wasn't perfect – nobody was – but she far surpassed his expectations of what he figured the last dovahkiin would be.

“Now,” Paarthurnax said, “in which manner did your plan go poorly?”

She sighed deeply, a sign that her visit to the College of Winterhold went much worse than planned. But from what he gathered, Mehra had a few possible plans. So, it was on to the next step, yes?

“Esbern also suggested Winterhold,” she began, “so it helped confirm that I was probably on the right track, but –”

But? But was usually a negative word to hear.

Another sigh. Worry was unhealthy for the mortals. Despite the fact that she was incapable of aging, Paarthurnax didn't like seeing her do it. After all, the body would stay young, but the soul?

The soul was aging in this one. As far as he knew, souls didn't age unto death, but they did age into weariness.

“I spoke with the archivist at the College,” Mehra continued. “He told me that my question was asinine, and then he ended up telling the Arch-Mage. Studying the anything profane or extremely dangerous is forbidden there. The Arch-Mage threatened me with expulsion if I ever attained an Elder Scroll.”

Hm. Well, that was a problem.

“On to the next plan, I suppose?” Paarthurnax mused. “What of this In Lah – Master of Magic – of whom you speak?”

“If he had an Elder Scroll,” Mehra replied, “then Neloth would have already done something with it. Still, I'm sure he would be willing to help me in my attempts to find one. The problem is that his tower is in the middle of nowhere on Solstheim, so he may not be current on artifacts and rumors of artifacts.”

Paarthurnax nodded. “If you believe it to be worth a try,” he said, “then it should be done.”

“I'll have to keep it quiet,” she said. “If word got back to Winterhold –”

Mehra's words trailed off, as if she were unwilling to speak of the consequences for such a thing. Though he supposed that such rules were important, this was a special circumstance. Paarthurnax allowed for said special circumstance to override the tenants of his own teachings, after all; the Dovahkiin would surely learn dragonrend, despite it being counter to the Way of the Voice.

Permitting it was risky but logical, but his instincts told him that she was trustworthy.

“Do you suppose that you can tell the Master of the College that you are Dovahkiin?” Paarthurnax asked. While her safety was important, certain risks were necessary. A learned individual may conclude that aiding her in retrieving an Elder Scroll was the proper course of action, given her identity.

“Honestly,” she murmured, “I don't know. I might get expelled for being dragonborn. Maybe that's me being paranoid, though.”

He narrowed his eyes and stared off at the horizon. The thought of her being expelled over such a thing was distasteful.

Paarthurnax wanted to protect her from it – fiercely.

“If such a thing happened,” he replied, “then they would be unworthy friends.”

“I know,” Mehra said, her voice small.

“So, Dovahkiin,” Paarthurnax said, “Are you prepared for expulsion?”

“I'll do whatever it takes.”

The words were spoken quickly, without a trace of hesitation. Mehra surpassed his expectations of what he thought the Dovahkiin would be.

This was his kin.

He was proud; so, so proud.

 

* * *

 

She knew something wasn't right in Whiterun the moment she entered the market district and saw a handful of the merchants wearing all black as they packed up their shops for the evening. Someone important to them died.

A tall, red-haired woman among the mourners finished packing her wares and headed toward home. As she passed by Mehra, she gave her a small smile.

“Hail, Companion,” she said, the smile not reaching her eyes.

“Hail,” Mehra replied. What was her name again? Ysolde?

“It's funny,” she said, “she told me when I was checking in on her one day that you'd be very important. I'm sure you remember Olava; she gave you a glimpse of her vision when you first came to Whiterun.”

Oh, the old seer woman. Mehra remembered her, as well as her unique gift.

The mushroom tower in the ash that she saw was Tel Mithryn; there was no doubt in her mind. And it went beyond that. She foresaw her fateful meeting with Erich – the 'curse of madness' that she saw – as well as her newfound friendships that gave her the strength to go on.

She wished she'd taken heart at the old seer's words, rather than viewing them as some strange oddity.

“Most of what she said has come to pass,” Mehra admitted.

“I'm glad,” Ysolde replied. “She shared fortunes every once in a while. While she didn't have any family, she was a cornerstone of our community and a friend to everyone, Gods rest her.”

So, the old seer woman was the one who passed.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” Mehra said, the words feeling trite and out of place. But what more could she say?

“I appreciate that,” she sighed. “Honestly, I do. We're all going to grow old and die someday, but having it happen to someone you know is a very sad reminder. It seems like she fell asleep and just didn't wake up again, so at least it was peaceful.”

Mehra nodded along, unsure of the feeling. She wasn't going to grow old and die, nor would she get sick and die. When death eventually came to her, it would have to do so in a violent way.

“Anyway,” Ysolde said, “I'll let you go on your way. Thanks. We're happy to have you as part of Whiterun.”

“And I'm happy to be here,” Mehra replied. It wasn't Sadrith Mora, but it was a new and welcoming home.

With that, she took her leave and headed up the stairs at the far end of the market district. In the courtyard that the wealthy houses surrounded, the ancient tree still stood, devoid of any leaves and confirming her suspicion from her first visit to Whiterun that it was dead.

It was a shame, really.

Tearing her eyes away from the dead tree, Mehra made her way across the courtyard and up the stairs that led to Jorrvaskr. She threw the hall door open to see the Companions carousing after their evening meal. Across the hall, her eyes met Aela's, and the archer gave her a nod.

Mehra stepped into the light of the hall and called out a greeting. Cheers and hails rose up from those present as her tired feet took her over to Aela. With a nod, Aela led her off to the side. As soon as they were away from anyone who could overhear them, Mehra let her know that the task she'd been given was complete.

"And there is more work to be done,” Aela nodded. “But I fear that Kodlak's gotten wind of our recent efforts. He's asked to see you. My advice? Keep being honest with him; that's earned you a great deal of respect.”

Mehra closed her eyes and swallowed. “Alright,” she replied. “I'll go see him. Is he down in his quarters?”

Aela nodded toward the stairs, answering her question. With a lot to lose, Mehra turned on her heel and crossed the hall to the stairwell that led to Jorrvaskr's lower level.

It was only a matter of time before Kodlak caught on to their Silver Hand extermination project.

Now, she had to own up to it.

 


	24. Chapter 24

A/n: A bit of a dialog heavy chapter here, but it was fun to write. I hope you all enjoy it!

Somewhat NSFW for adult themes.

 

* * *

 

_"Mortals love to take a pebble of information and construct entire realms of conjecture upon it." –Haskill_

 

* * *

  
  


Kodlak Whitemane was a tidy man.

Kodlak's quarters were as neat as the day she poked her head in to ask to join the Companions. In fact, it seemed as if nothing moved in the length of time between then and now. He sat at a small table facing the door, a book in his hand and a goblet of wine to his right on the table.

Maps lined the far right wall and lay in orderly stacks on top of the desk in the corner. Accompanying the maps appeared to be a stack of books on Morrowind – out of place next to the numerous volumes of Nord history and hunting on the stuffed bookshelf next to the desk.

Kodlak looked up as soon as she entered the doorway, quickly marked his place in his book, and closed it.

“I hear you've been busy as of late,” he said.

Mehra sucked in a breath and sighed. “I – yeah.”

He nodded, pointing to the chair on the other side of the table. “Please, close the door and have a seat.”

Mehra did as requested, closing the door, then pulling the neighboring chair out from the table and angling it to face Kodlak. While she felt that she'd done the right thing in going after the Silver Hand, Mehra had the distinct impression that Kodlak disagreed.

But he knew who she was. Mehra felt secure in the fact that he respected her as a peer, at the very least.

Kodlak turned to her and shook his head. "Now,” he started, “it's no business of mine what each Companion does in the name of honor. But this sneaking around – it doesn't befit warriors of your standing. Aela knows better, and frankly, I know that you especially should.”

“I'm an ex-assassin, Kodlak,” Mehra said. Sneaking was what she was used to.

“That is not the type of sneaking that I am referring to,” he replied. “I assume you belonged to an organization, yes? From what I have read, assassins have a guild in Morrowind.”

She nodded. “I was Morag Tong, yes.”

Kodlak swished the wine around in his goblet and stared at in thought. “So, in a manner of speaking, you've been freelancing on us.”

Mehra closed her eyes. He was absolutely correct.

“I don't want to tell anyone what to do,” he sighed. “That isn't my job. We're called 'companions' for a reason; nobody has authority. But it is the Harbinger's job to provide guidance.”

Kodlak shifted in his seat and took a sip of wine.

“You are at least one hundred fifty or so years older than me,” he shrugged. “I am not going to pretend that I have more life experience than you. But what I do have is a different perspective. And from my perspective, let me tell you; seeking revenge well beyond what has been repaid is a path which only reads to ruin.”

She turned to look at him. How had she forgotten such a simple thing? No, she hadn't known Skjor that well. But seeing what his death did to Aela and the rest of the Companions made her angry.

She was angry at the Silver Hand for killing Skjor – a werewolf who didn't mean any harm to others. She was angry that they dared to hurt Aela, her new and treasured friend. And most importantly, she was fiercely protective of the mead-swilling barbarians who gave her a home and offered their friendship.

Mehra wanted to get the Silver Hand eradicated before they came after everyone in Jorrvaskr.

“I wanted to protect everyone,” she admitted.

He gave her a sad smile. “I understand,” Kodlak said. “Now, let me tell you how the Companions came to be werewolves. The Companions are nearly five thousand years old. This matter of beastblood has only troubled us for a few hundred.”

She figured they weren't always werewolves, given that there was no historical record of it.

“One of my predecessors was a good, but short-sighted man,” he continued. “He made a bargain with the witches of Glenmoril Coven. If the Companions would hunt in the name of their lord, Hircine, we would be granted great power.”

“I'm assuming that he didn't know exactly what that meant,” Mehra said.

Kodlak shook his head. “No, he didn't. They did not believe that the change would be permanent, and the witches offered payment, like anyone else.”

Lack of education about their ways was one of the many methods that Daedra Lords used to ensnare mortals. Combined with a vague promise of unimaginable power – which was irresistible most of the time – many fell to the trap.

“Pardon,” Mehra mumbled, “but that seems to explain some of the mistrust of magic.”

Kodlak pursed his lips and nodded. “Were you anyone else, I would not have permitted you to stay. But my instincts told me that you were special. I am glad that I trusted them.”

“I am, too,” she replied. Mehra wasn't sure what she would have done had she not been allowed to stay with them after her first return from Solstheim.

“So, they didn't realize that hunting in the name of Hircine meant forever?” Mehra guessed.

“Exactly,” Kodlak sighed. “For some, going to be with Hircine is a paradise. They want nothing more than to chase prey with their master for eternity. And that is their choice. That is surely what Skjor's choice would have been. But I am still a true Nord. And I wish for Sovngarde as my spirit home.”

She leaned to the side to rest her elbow on the table and placed her chin in her hand. It had been well over two hundred years since she last had contact with Hircine, and even then, being his champion at the time of the Bloodmoon prophecy surely wouldn't have enough pull to convince him to free the Companions of their lycanthropy.

“I've, uh,” Mehra mumbled, “I've got some connections that might be able to help with this. I can't make a guarantee, though.”

Kodlak turned to her and gave her a concerned look. “There is a safer way than the way you are likely considering.”

“What's the plan, then?” she asked.

He explained to her that the witches' curse needed to be lifted. Mehra needed to collect their heads – all three of them – and bring them back to Kodlak so they could begin the next part of the ritual.

While they both agreed that Mehra was the perfect person to go, as she was the strongest among them, it was foolish to underestimate the power of the witches of Glenmoril who ensnared the souls of hundreds of Companions for centuries.

Mehra agreed to the plan immediately, not caring in the least that part of it sounded like dark arts.

She'd seen and done much worse before.

 

* * *

 

Windhelm.

Why did he bother with going to Windhelm? Any mer who wasn't dark-skinned stuck out in this city. Of course, the Thalmor would find him here. He was stupid to assume that they wouldn't try to send an agent to find him.

The agent waited for him to leave the city; that much was true. He was tempted to turn the guy in to the city guard so that Ulfric Stormcloak could deal with him, but the fear of being handed over to the Thalmor made him quiet.

Malborn paced outside the New Gnisis Cornerclub, trying desperately to control his breathing. Despite the coolness of the air, it felt as if he couldn't get enough air into his lungs.

He wanted to run more than anything.

Shaking, Malborn crossed his arms and leaned back against the nearby wall, rocking himself as his heart hammered in his chest. He was going to die here; he just knew it. Escaping the embassy only delayed the inevitable.

He was dead. So, so dead. He had to get out of here. He had to –

“Malborn?”

He jerked his head up in terror at the sound of his name. Someone knew him.

When he saw her, Malborn clenched his jaw.

Her.

The one who started all of this was here. He didn't want to see that woman for the rest of his life, nor did he want anything to do with Delphine.

“Melisi,” he scowled. Was that her real name, even? Nobody would be stupid enough to sneak into the Thalmor embassy using their real name.

He peered behind her, looking for the terrifying man who carried him to Kynesgrove. Thankfully, the eerie Nord assassin-mage was nowhere to be seen.

But the woman in front of him was scary in her own right; the strange armor she wore was completely different from what he'd seen her wearing before. Was it dragon? Daedric? It looked tough, whatever it was. He noted with a glance that she'd gained weight, the bulk of it muscle. And while he was used to people towering over him – Bosmer problems – Malborn remembered with a start that she was a giant of a Dunmer woman, at least the height of a tall Imperial or Redguard woman.

With her uniqueness, it was a shock that the Embassy hadn't tracked the woman down yet and executed her.

Maybe, it had something to do with the strange man who helped her with the job. They both made his hair stand on end, true, but that man –

Malborn couldn't put it into words.

“You're safe now,” the woman said. “right?”

“I'm a mer in a city of bigots and zealots,” he hissed. “So, you tell me.”

Her face fell, giving him the tiniest satisfaction that he'd upset her in some way. Malborn motioned to her and fought the urge to run off when she drew closer. He had to tell her about his Thalmor problem; without a doubt, she'd get the agent to go away.

“They found out I'm hiding here,” he murmured. “There's one of them right outside the city gates – a Khajiit. When I stepped outside the city, he gave me a look like he knew.”

She glanced back up the street, toward the city's gate, with a scowl on her face so deep that he almost felt pity for the Thalmor assassin.

“Give me ten minutes,” the woman said. “I'll be back.”

With that, she turned on her heel and stormed back the way she came. Malborn watched her as she disappeared out of the Gray Quarter, his heart hammering. Even with the notion that his problem would be temporarily taken care of, he couldn't calm himself.

Malborn closed his eyes, leaned against the grimy cornerclub wall, and exhaled. With all the strength he could muster, he forced himself to breathe slowly and relax his muscles as much as he could.

He expected relief, knowing that the assassin was going to be killed. The threat was gone; he could relax now and breathe.

Still, the panic stayed.

He opened his eyes and kept his gaze toward where he'd last seen Melisi – whatever her name was. Sure enough, within the time she told him, she reemerged from the non-Dunmer half of the city and descended downward into the slum.

She stopped in front of him and gave him a nod. “He's dead,” she said, as if she were discussing the weather.

“Good,” Malborn breathed. The immediate peril was gone.

“So what was your plan?” she asked. “I mean, I know you probably wouldn't want to stay in this city with everything that's going on.”

He nodded in agreement. Windhelm wasn't the best place to hide out.

“I had plans to go to Morrowind,” he admitted. “They hate the Thalmor there. It would be pretty easy to get lost.”

She seemed to consider this for a moment then nodded.

It was strange to run into her here, of all places. That was, unless she hated the Thalmor enough that decided to join the rebellion. And that made no sense, given her race.

“And why are you here?” Malborn asked. “Everyone knows what Windhelm is all about.”

“Going to Solstheim,” she said. “I–”

Her hesitation was predictable; people like her always had many secrets.

“There's a Telvanni Master there,” she finished. “I know him. In fact, now that I think about it, I might be able to help you out some.”

A Telvanni Master? They had a bad reputation, to say the least. Still, Malborn was intrigued; if she was able to help him even more, it was all the better. Her meddling was what got him into this mess in the first place.

“When you get to Morrowind,” she said, “find out where the Telvanni Archmagister, Aryon, lives. Ask for an audience; I think you'll find him quite agreeable. Tell him that his apprentice sent you. He'll know what that means.”

“I take it you were his apprentice at one time,” Malborn drawled.

“I was. Don't spread it around unless you want people asking you questions to which you have no answer.”

He nodded slowly. Telvanni were rumored to have many secrets.

But if he could get in with the Archmagister, then maybe, he'd be away from the Thalmor once and for all.

 

* * *

 

Mehra felt bad that she showed up to Tel Mithryn unannounced.

While Neloth appeared pleased – as much as a grouch could, at any rate – his steward seemed near frantic in her hasty attempts to tidy the place. Mehra watched as she bustled about, embarrassed that she caused such a fuss.

“So dusty,” Varona mumbled, worrying over a shelf that lay against the wall closest to the large table at which Mehra sat.

“I've been in crypts, dungeons, sewers, canton underworks,” Mehra said, “and probably a few other places I've selectively forgotten. A little dust in the corner is one of the least offensive things I can think of.”

The steward stopped in her fretting and gave her a lost look.

“How about instead of that,” Neloth grumbled, “you take the Lady's armor?”

So, it was assumed she'd be staying overnight. That was what she hoped for. Hopefully, she'd have a good discussion on magic and related subjects, then relieve a little bit of tension.

The business of the Elder Scroll was only a small portion of why she decided to visit.

As Varona helped her remove her armor, Mehra glanced behind her to see Neloth giving her an appraising look. Their eyes met as she gave him a coy smile over her shoulder. The smirk he gave her in exchange said it all; clearly, he had similar thoughts in mind.

If Varona noticed the heated looks, she said nothing. Mehra supposed that ignoring such things was part of her job as a steward.

Talvas sat at the table, oblivious to the entire thing. “So, what's new?” he asked. “I hope everything is going well.”

Mehra sighed and sat down as Varona took the last pieces of armor away for storage. “Well, it's a long story.”

The apprentice's face fell. “That doesn't sound good,” he replied. “Is there anything – I mean, do you want to talk about it?”

She pursed her lips. He wanted to ask her if there was anything they could do to help, but it certainly wasn't his place to do so. But she did need to ask for help, so they'd hear the story, minus the part about the leader of the Graybeards being a dragon.

“You need to ask me for help, don't you?” Neloth drawled. “Well, get it out, then.”

Mehra laughed and put her head in her hands. “Alright,” she said. “You've got me. It's going to sound insane, but I need an Elder Scroll.”

The silence that followed was palpable.

She looked up to see Neloth leaning against his desk, legs crossed at the ankles. He crossed his arms and sized her up.

There was something about his gaze that made a person feel absolutely minuscule; out of the corner of her eye, Mehra saw that both steward and apprentice felt it from how they froze in place with a look of fear on their faces. And though part of her wanted to hunch over meekly, the street rat that she used to be refused to show that she was intimidated.

“What would you do with this scroll?” Neloth asked.

Surely, he knew he had an intimidating look to him. Maybe he used it to his advantage; Mehra certainly did the same when she had to. Being a tall Dunmer had numerous advantages.

“I need to see back in time,” she replied. “To the time where the Tongues used a certain shout against Alduin. I need to learn that shout; it's called 'dragonrend', and it's likely the only way I can defeat him.”

Neloth sucked in a breath and shook his head. “That would be assuming that an Elder Scroll was present at the time said shout was used. And even if so, this is all dealing with completely untested theory.”

“The Tongues used one to cast Alduin forward in time,” Mehra said. “That's why he suddenly appeared.”

He uncrossed his arms and put his head in his hands. So he knew that the prophecy wasn't much of a prophecy, and that everything she was doing was basically a shot in the dark.

Mehra felt a twinge of guilt for piling some of her stress on him, but she didn't have much choice.

“I don't have an Elder Scroll,” Neloth said.

She didn't think so. “But,” Mehra replied, “if anyone could find one–”

“Don't butter me up,” Neloth scoffed. “It's unbecoming. I shall search for your scroll, but I cannot make guarantees.”

Mehra nodded slowly. He had no problem with helping her, apparently. And if he couldn't find one for her soon, then perhaps, she'd have to cheat and ask –

“Right,” Neloth grumbled. “Talvas! Varona! I need you both out. Go to Raven Rock for the supply run. Tell Ulves and Elynea to use the bell if they need something. There are to be no interruptions under any circumstances. Dangerous research and training and all. Now, leave.”

While Varona didn't appear fazed in the least, Talvas couldn't hide the fact that his Master's order crushed him. Mehra watched as they quickly packed their bags and turned to Neloth as the pair made their way across the tower to the levitation portal.

Did he want her right now, or something? While she did have it in mind later on, it did seem quite sudden.

The apprentice and steward disappeared through the front door, leaving the quiet tower behind. Letting out a deep breath, Mehra glanced to the door, then back at Neloth.

With a lack of anything interesting to say, she figured she ought to get it out of the way:

“I'm definitely barren,” she said. “No potion necessary.”

“Congratulations to both of us, I suppose,” Neloth nodded. Shaking his head, he approached the table and sat down, motioning to her to do likewise. “Now, what is this prophecy about, then?”

“I don't think this whole thing is so much a prophecy as it is a calculation,” Mehra admitted. “And that's terrifying.”

“Seems to be a calculation, yes,” he agreed. “At times, divination can be quite precise. This bodes poorly for your odds, however. Sure, they calculated when Alduin would arrive, and the events surrounding his arrival. And it makes sense that a Dragonborn would be the only one capable of doing something about it.”

Mehra sighed and hunched in her seat. “The Nerevarine prophecy at least said I'd win. This one only says I'd contend with Alduin; no mention of victory. It must be a calculation.”

Desperate to talk about anything other than her poor chances of defeating Alduin, Mehra sat up.

“I need to know something.” she said. “I found an old journal. It was in the hull of the wreckage of the Pride of Tel Vos. It said that the House was completely destroyed.”

Neloth snorted. “Dramatic nonsense.”

“I figured so,” she said. “There's a girl at the College who says she's one of us. Her parents put a lot of pressure on her. Seems sheltered. She said that she will be put in an arranged marriage when she's done studying at the College.”

“As well they should!” he groused. “There aren't many of us left. But we shall rebuild.”

“Tell me about it,” Mehra said. “Even if it makes me regret going away, I have to know.”

“During the Oblivion Crisis, the House closed the gates. Where were you when this happened?”

“I was here,” she frowned. “I was stuck on this island – there wasn't a damn thing here at the time– and they wouldn't let me off until the gates were closed. My recall spell just wouldn't reach that far.”

Neloth put his face in his hands and sighed deeply, grumbling about her being a 'dumb kid'.

“During that time,” he said, “we lost Divayth, Dratha, and Therana. You didn't think to check back afterward, Hortator?”

Nearly everyone in charge died while she was away. Part of her wondered if she would have suffered the same fate had she been on Vvardenfell at the time of the Oblivion Crisis. It was quite likely that Mehrunes Dagon would have made a bigger push where she was located. And though she was an excellent fighter and a powerful mage, she couldn't hold off hordes of daedra on her own.

“I was selfish,” Mehra admitted. “I didn't think to return, no.”

“A true Telvanni Master,” Neloth shrugged. “Regardless, after the eruption and Argonian Invasion, Aryon had to promote a few people to Master. People who participate, nonetheless.” He glared out at nothing, clearly still disappointed with Aryon's decision two hundred years after the fact.

“If Tel Vos was destroyed, where was Aryon?”

Neloth swallowed and clenched his jaw. After a moment of thinking, he shook his head. “He was here,” he replied. “I had –”

He scowled and looked off to the side.

“I had an accident,” he spat. “I suppose I'm lucky that I'm a House relic. I'd be dead, otherwise.”

“I think you'd be valuable based on your own merit,” Mehra said, “not your age.”

Neloth's frown deepened. “They're the same, in our circle. You know better.”

He crossed his arms and propped his legs up on the chair across from him. An errant thought crossed her mind – that she wanted to straddle his lap – but she squashed it immediately. She'd bide her time; the conversation was more tempting than desire.

“Now,” he said, “you do have daedric ties. You're Azura's chosen, and you've been a member of the Morag Tong. Given that I have invited you into my home – among other things – I would like to know if there is anything else I ought to be aware of.”

Mehra sighed deeply and put her head in her hands. Well, she supposed he had a right to know.

“Yeah, there is,” she admitted.

Neloth said nothing and waited expectantly for her to continue.

“After leaving Solstheim,” she began, “I wanted to check out the Imperial City and see what happened there. The Chancellor was having a tough time with finding allies, so when there was news of a Telvanni mage in the city, he ended up sending an invitation for one of his parties to me. There, I met the Champion of Cyrodiil.”

She hesitated, unsure of what all to share with him.

“And?” Neloth asked, his expression growing impatient.

“I don't know what to tell you,” she admitted. “I don't know what is relevant.”

“The truth, generally,” he drawled.

Well, if he wanted the truth, then he'd get it.

“We made friends with each other,” she continued. “Erich Heartfire was a Nord, and a huge one at that. He was horrible with concentrating to cast properly, but what spells he did cast were powerful – dangerously powerful. He could climb to the top of his tower faster than I could levitate up there. And his strength was greater than one could imagine. So I fell for the guy and his stupid smile and his complete lack of caring about just about anything. Then –”

Mehra took a deep breath. “I found Black Hand robes in a chest in his tower,” she said. “Found out he was the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood.”

Neloth stared at her incredulously.

“Yeah,” she sighed, “it went over as well as you'd imagine. That fight was the last time I saw him for some two hundred years when I ran into him again. Apparently, Sheogorath was another daedric prince at one time. His name was Jyggalag, Prince of Order. From what I gathered from Erich, Jyggalag was too powerful or irritating – maybe both – to the other Princes, so they banded together and sealed him into the form of the Madgod. Erich freed Jyggalag and was given the title of 'Sheogorath'. And I have no reason to believe that he isn't the real thing.”

“Oh?” he asked.

“I've seen things,” Mehra mumbled. “Tiny glimpses of his power. He uses the planes of Oblivion like a backpack. Can make someone do what he wants with a mere suggestion. If you saw him in person, you'd know. I've seen him and I believe.”

Neloth's brow furrowed in concern. “You're not worshiping him, I hope?”

“No,” she replied. “And he wouldn't want me to. We've joked about it, yeah, but no. We're friends and I know I can trust him.”

“Friends with Sheogorath,” he mused. “That's strange. You're strange.”

Mehra laughed and sat back in her chair. “Well, that's the sweetest thing a man has said to me in quite a while.”

He tilted his head to the side in confusion, and Mehra fought the urge to hide her face in embarrassment. She was flirting with him; surely he didn't like it. It was childish, wasn't it?

A twitch of a smile came to his mouth before he quickly schooled his face into a look of indifference.

“Then I shall say it again,” Neloth said. “You are strange.”

“Thank you.”

Hm. Interesting. Apparently she hadn't turned him off.

Neloth turned and gave her a thoughtful look. “Tell me something I don't know,” he said. “Preferably something that doesn't have to do with Daedra Lords and what they've been up to.”

Mehra bit her lip. What would interest him?

“There's a word I learned,” she said, “It means 'force' in dragontongue. It sounds similar. So, when you say it, you say f–”

Mehra clamped her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide. Idiot.

“What?”

“I don't know what happens if I say the word casually. The leader of the Graybeards said it, but I'm untrained.” She kept her hands over her mouth.

Neloth pointed at the blank wall across from the levitation portal. “There, then.”

“Fus.”

A small puff of blue came out of her mouth. It sure wasn't a shout; it wasn't much of anything, to be honest.

Neloth tilted his head to the side. “Doesn't look dangerous,” he said. “Say it to me.”

Still, Mehra had her reservations. “I'm untrained,” she replied. “Are you sure?”

He gave her a bored look, and Mehra shrugged. Figuring that she gave him good enough of a warning, she turned to him.

“Fus.”

It looked as if someone pushed him in his chair. Neloth shrugged it off and motioned for her to continue speaking.

“I also know one that has to do with fire,” she said.

“Keep that one to yourself,” Neloth frowned. He stared at the levitation portal, flexing his scarred hands. What were those burn marks? She doubted he had any fingerprints left. He said that he had an accident. Aryon was gone from Tel Vos during the eruption, but Mehra was under the impression that Neloth was on Solstheim at the same time. Perhaps, her assumption was incorrect.

Did he get caught in the blast?

Mehra straightened up before he became wise to what she was thinking. “I also know one that –”

She crossed her arms. She wasn't sure how to describe it. Pursing her lips, Mehra stood and backed as far away from him as she could. This distance would be safe, right?

“It's called 'Whirlwind Sprint',” she said, “but it's not like a sprint, really. I'll have to show you. I think I'm far enough to not run into anything.”

Neloth waited expectantly and Mehra took a deep breath. This wasn't a 'true need' as they Greybeards defined it, but oh, she wanted to impress him, even slightly.

“Wuld!”

She dashed forward and Neloth moved his legs just in time for her to stumble and skid past him. Mehra flailed in place, but she was going down face first.

“Fus ro dah!”

The impromptu shout blew her high into the air, much closer to the ceiling than the floor. Realizing she forgot how to levitate, Mehra attempted to adjust her fall in mid-air, but the shout flung her every which way. Mehra braced for impact; this was going to hurt.

The fall never came.

Mehra opened her eyes, only to find she was still in the air. An eerie, violet glow surrounded her and she followed its tether to a glowing Neloth, who supported her in the air with outstretched arms. It was the most impressive telekinetic spell she'd ever seen.

“I usually use this to catch my prey,” he chuckled.

“Prey?”

“Don't act naïve,” Neloth murmured, “you know how I stay young.”

He gently lowered her down to the floor, his eyes boring into hers. “Don't be an idiot with those shouts.”

Mehra's boots touched the floor and Neloth let go of the spell. The effect of weightlessness left her legs weak; he seemed to know this and led her over to the chair that he used as a footstool. Taking the chair directly across from her, Neloth leaned in.

“Now,” he said, “tell me something I don't know.”

Mehra closed her eyes and exhaled. He was so ancient that it was possible that he saw the Voice being used, or at least knew something about it. She didn't know what to tell him that he didn't already know. After a moment's thought, Mehra had an idea.

“To destroy the binding, once with Sunder, five times with Keening.”

“The Heart of Lorkhan?”

“Disappeared,” Mehra said. “Didn't get destroyed. I think it went wherever the Dwemer went. I imagine they have it now, if they aren't all dead or un-matter. So dangerous. Could you imagine them coming back?”

She opened her eyes to look at him. His expression was unreadable.

“Please be careful with those heartstones, Neloth,” she said. “I heard the heart when I was stabbed. It called me by name, said that I should come closer. Then, I bled out, staring at that damned heart. No thoughts of my pregnant wife; just the heart.”

“Don't know whose child that was,” Mehra continued. “Sometimes, we –”

Oh, wow. That was one hell of a memory. She didn't want to peek into Nerevar's private life, but sometimes, things resurfaced. Nobody would believe that a Nerevar plus Tribunal foursome ever existed. It was best she buried that one.

“Who am I speaking to?” Neloth asked.

Mehra closed her eyes. “I don't even know.” 'We?' That wasn't her.

Neloth tsked. “You know. Don't be dramatic.”

“I,” she began. “Yeah. You're right.”

He was right more often than not, and though it was somewhat frustrating, he didn't seem to be too smug about it. Mehra supposed that he was used to being right, as old as he was. After all, he'd seen enough things in his life that he'd have a good idea of what was going on most of the time.

“You're clever for your age,” Neloth admitted. “I'll give you a few more centuries and you will be quite formidable. This whole 'saving the mortal realm' thing you seem to have an aptitude for certainly helps.”

Mehra gave him a sad smile. “I really appreciate that.” Never in her life did she think she'd hear Neloth compliment her, but well –

“Facts are not heartfelt,” he grumbled, shattering the illusion that he paid her a compliment.

She shook her head. “Then thanks for enlightening me with facts.”

“It's what I do,” Neloth said, leaning back in his chair with a smug smirk. “So, I suppose you know what happened to the Tribunal?”

Mehra closed her eyes and nodded. Yes, they broke their oaths. Yes, they committed blasphemy by elevating themselves to godhood.

But their story ended in such tragedy. After centuries to think of it, Mehra felt pity for them. She supposed that the true Tribunal gave them their just punishment.

Easily, she could stand on the side of justice but not take delight in the Tribunal's punishment.

“If you want to know what happened,” Mehra said, “Almalexia went insane from being cut off from her divine powers. Sotha Sil became reclusive. She hunted him down in his Clockwork City and killed him, believing that she could become the one true god. She attempted to trap me, too, and I had to kill her.”

She barely recognized Almalexia when she saw her. Gone was the plain, boyish girl with sharp eyes and a multitude of freckles across her golden skin. In her place was a buxom woman who changed her appearance entirely in a bid to become someone else.

Maybe it was for the better, that way. Had she been the Almalexia whom Nerevar remembered, killing her may have been more difficult.

“And Vivec?” Neloth asked, snapping her out of her thoughts.

Mehra sighed and nodded. “I met him as well,” she frowned. “And his parting words when I took Sunder and Keening to fight Dagoth Ur were something to the effect of 'when you return, let me fuck you and write a sermon about it'.”

“Charming.”

She shrugged. Perhaps, he thought that she'd be the same as all the others who had the rare pleasure of a visit with him. Just because she was a House Telvanni Dunmer didn't mean she was native, and it especially didn't mean that she thought anything of him, given she was raised in Daggerfall.

“I didn't know him that well,” Mehra admitted. “And at the time, I didn't care to. I've no clue what happened to him; anyone's guess is as good as mine.”

Neloth nodded. The idea that he may have worshiped the False Tribunal at one point – though likely true – was strange to her.

He regarded her with a thoughtful look and pursed his lips. “Tell me how you defeated Dagoth Ur,” Neloth said. “The real story. Not any of this 'battle of the ages' nonsense.”

Mehra laughed. “Saw right through that one, didn't you?”

“I find such stories implausible and are often highly embellished,” he shrugged. “Now, if it's a matter of pride on your part, I will begrudgingly understand. I feel, however, that you are mature enough to speak plainly on the matter.”

Was this manipulation, or a compliment? Mehra couldn't tell. Would Neloth verbally manipulate someone, though? She had the impression that he wouldn't resort to such tactics. Now, she wasn't so sure.

“Sometimes,” she admitted, “I feel as if it was the prophecy that granted me victory, rather than my own doing. You have to understand that the Heart was something so unimaginably powerful, beautiful, and terrifying that it completely defied comprehension.”

Even the mere mention of the Heart of Lorkhan was enough to make her heart race. She was impure when she saw it with her own eyes and it called to her. Then again, she wagered that nobody was pure enough to gaze upon the heart and not lust after it.

“Of course,” Mehra continued, “the stories of the Heart's power being imparted on those who experimented on it were completely true. Dagoth didn't fight with a weapon; he didn't need one. He had claws harder than ebony; he caught my sword many times and the damage to his skin was minimal. But what his mind could do was much stronger. Without heavy preparations, there was no way I could have stood against him.”

She was making herself vulnerable before this man who told her nothing equally unflattering about himself in return. The dark part of her heart told her that she ought to stop; she ought to guard herself from him so he couldn't take advantage of her.

Mehra violently squashed the thought. Neloth wasn't being malicious. When he intended to be malicious, the things he said were outright nasty.

“I'll be honest,” she sighed, “I loaded up on enchanted anything I could find – and I mean 'six amulets, four belts, and three rings on each finger' kind of enchantments– , drank as many potions as I could fit in my stomach, and spent almost all of my money on the best armor available. Vomited potions all over the Heart when I struck it.”

Neloth put his head in his hands, shaking with laughter. “Vomited on the Heart? This potions thing seems to be common with you.”

“'How can you kill a god?'” she mumbled. “'What a grand and intoxicating innocence.' That was what he said to me. And I imagine it took someone who refused to take 'no' for an answer to get the job done. I was a poor listener back then. I thought I could do anything. I had the ring, after all. I was destined to overcome.”

Dagoth Ur had been correct. Looking back on it, the fact that she killed a god-of-sorts was incredible.

“After being cured of corprus,” she said, “and completing some trials for the Ashlanders, I ended up at a hidden cavern. In this cavern was a statue of Azura holding the Moon-and-Star. Also there were a host of failed Incarnates.”

“Failed Incarnates?” Neloth repeated. “As in, you weren't necessarily the first one, and may not have been the last?”

“I don't know,” Mehra admitted. “I don't know whether they had Nerevar's soul. It would stand to argue that if they did, I would have some of their memories as well, but I don't. The fact that I could wear the ring was good enough for me. It killed some of the incarnates. Honestly, I ought to have taken their presence as a warning. Instead, I took it as a testament to my greatness.”

Neloth shrugged. “I ran tests on your hair,” he said. “You're a completely normal person, aside from the half-cured disease. Those findings are both boring and extraordinary. I hope you realize that means that you're damned lucky.”

“I think Nerevar has something to do with it,” she said. “I've needed help before, and anytime I've asked Nerevar to guide me, I have had uncanny success. Yes, he studied some magic, but his skill with sword and spear was phenomenal.”

Neloth pursed his lips and drummed his fingers on the table. “Whatever this is with the dragons,” he mused, “it is statistically improbable that you will have the same amount of fortune twice. You have to be realistic about your odds: this nonsense may be your doom. I'm not being dramatic, either; this is what is reasonable.”

“I know,” she sighed. “And to that end, please don't tell Aryon where I am or that I'm around. It would be cruel to him.”

Mehra didn't want to come back in Aryon's life only to disappear again. Sending Malborn to him was bad enough as-is. If he knew that Neloth knew where she was, there was no doubt in her mind that he'd seek her out.

“I'm old,” Neloth murmured. “I get it more than you think I may. Hiding you won't be a problem.”

Hiding her? That was an interesting way to put it.

She watched as he stood and made his way to a nearby desk covered in books and papers.

“I suppose while you're here,” Neloth drawled, “you may as well do some reading. You can read, yes?”

She narrowed her eyes in his direction. How in the world could she have made it to the rank of Master without being able to read?

Neloth waved off her glare. “Alright, alright,” he grumbled. “Some peasants don't know. A thousand pardons for asking, Your Eminence.”

He dug through a pile of books, mumbling to himself about 'boding ill for later activities'. What did he mean by –

Oh.

Oh.

No, she wasn't thinking of cutting him off. She did have some things that Sanguine taught her that she wanted to test out on him, after all.

But as far as reading was concerned –

She put her head in her hands. With having to look for an Elder Scroll, she'd nearly forgotten.

“I have to write a paper,” Mehra admitted. “So, maybe something on enchanting? I've never written an academic paper before in my life. Honestly, I'm a fighter, not a scholar.”

A pile of papers plopped on the table in front of her, making her jump.

“Read it,” Neloth grumbled, “annotate it. If anyone is to teach you about enchanting, it might as well be me as anyone else will likely get something wrong. My name will grant you perfect marks.”

Then, a lower, barely-audible grumble: “Academia and testing getting in the way of learning.”

Mehra glanced down at the handwritten notes – his personal writings – and nodded slowly. This opportunity was one that typically never came along, even for an exceptional mage. She was acutely aware of her position as a young, uneducated upstart, prophecy and gods-given powers aside.

Smirking, she turned her eyes back up to Neloth. “So, what do you want in exchange for the lesson this time?”

He blinked at her in confusion and slowly backed away. “If you don't actually want to–”

“I'm being silly,” Mehra chuckled, “I wouldn't give you anything that I didn't want to give freely.”

Neloth gave her a strange look, and it occurred to her that perhaps, it had been centuries since a woman last flirted with him. There was no way she'd prostitute herself out to him in order to receive lessons. And it certainly seemed that he wanted no such thing from her.

So she decided to speak in the plainest terms she could:

“You can have me.”

Mehra let out a squeak of surprise as he hauled her up by the hips and dropped her onto the table. His hands were everywhere at once, finding the ties to her boots, the buckle of her belt, and the leather cord that held her hair.

A desperate, warm hand slid up the back of her shirt, giving her the impression that it would happen there at the table.

“Isn't this your kitchen table?” Mehra gasped. “Doesn't Talvas sit here?”

A dark chuckle against her throat told her all she needed to know.

He took her roughly on a pile of scattered papers, murmuring quietly against her collar in his ancient tongue – about her ebony skin, the strength of her muscles, her ridiculous, beautiful hair – pretty things that she was certain he never would have said had he known that she understood him well enough.

She wasn't sure how long they spent together, but by the time the dinner bell rang at the front door, they were clothed again, curled up in a pair of chairs that were much too close to each other. The pile of papers and books on the table in front of them survived the ordeal admirably – only a few wrinkles, and thankfully, no stains.

Grumbling to himself, Neloth pushed his chair back, stood, and made his way across the tower. Mehra turned her attention back to her book and heard a bell ring in answer. The front door opened and she heard voices below, followed by a brief silence and footsteps across the main floor of the tower.

The scent of saltrice made her look up from her book to see a younger man and an elderly woman coming forward with trays of food in their hands.

“A guest?” the man marveled. “I expected Talvas, not a lovely young beauty. Hello, miss.”

The elderly woman cleared her throat and gave him a look of warning. Unfortunately, it didn't seem as if he noticed. He placed his tray of food on one of the few bare spots on the table and turned to give her a quick once-over.

“I am Ulves,” he said, “and this is Elynea. I hope you're enjoying your stay. If there's anything you need, you let me know. What's your name, sera?”

Neloth approached him with a scowl.

“Mistress Mehra Dreloth,” he hissed, “Mage Lord and Hortator of House Telvanni. Moon-and-Star of Morrowind. Know your place, servant.”

Mehra ignored the cook's look of shock. “Neloth, he didn't know,” she said, keeping her voice as quiet and soothing as possible. The vein on his forehead was coming out, a sure sign that the ancient wizard was furious.

“The assumption ought to be that a guest to this tower is important,” he spat. “I do not let anyone just stay here.”

“I know,” Mehra admitted. “But I don't really look – well, you know.”

Neloth sighed and visibly deflated. “No, not anymore, you don't. This is better, now; don't go shaving your head.”

“I won't,” she laughed. Mehra turned to the frightened servants and gave them a smile. “It's nice to meet you both. I'm sure you can keep a secret that I'm around, right?”

“Of course, virtuous Lady,” Ulves said.

Mehra nodded and turned her gaze toward the trays of food. 'Virtuous' was it? She wasn't sure how much virtue she had left after the things Neloth did to her.

Elenya gave Neloth a short bow. “I wanted to inform you, Master, that it appears that there is an ashstorm on the horizon. I believe that Talvas and Varona will be delayed.”

Neloth sighed and waved them away. “It is what it is,” he said. “Take no chances with the weather and stay in your quarters for the evening.”

With that, they both gave him a short bow then took their leave, disappearing as suddenly as they arrived.

The silence that followed was strangely comfortable. They ate dinner quietly, pushing the plates aside when they were finished to resume reading.

Neloth's writings were fascinating. No, it wasn't an easy read, but she learned more about enchanting from just a stack of his notes than she did in her entire life. Mehra continued through the papers, reaching about mid-way before she heard a quiet, 'come here' mumbled from the other end of the table.

Mehra didn't have to ask to know what he wanted; the look in his eyes was enough to tell her.

The wind howled outside along with the distinct sound of ashfall – a sound she'd forgotten in the centuries she'd spent away from Morrowind. Wordlessly, she did as she was told and padded over to him, straddled him as she was told – whatever he wanted – until they collapsed, breathless and exhausted.

Mehra curled up in a borrowed bed, briefly wondering why it seemed that he didn't sleep, before succumbing to tiredness.

When dawn arrived, the ashstorm was over, and the tower was quiet once more. Mehra made her way around the tower, grabbed her clothes, and put them on slowly.

It was peaceful here. She didn't really want to leave, but given her responsibilities –

“You're leaving.”

She turned her head to see Neloth sitting with his feet propped up on another chair, a book in his hands. He didn't ask her if she was leaving. He didn't have to; he knew.

“Your type is always busy,” he said. “It's what you do.”

Be busy, or leave?

As Mehra grabbed the stored parts of her armor and began to put them on, she concluded that both were true. Each piece of her armor went back on quickly, until there was nothing left to do but collect her bag and leave.

Neloth motioned toward the pile of papers he allowed her to read the night before. “Take those with you,” he said.

“Aren't they your personal notes?” Mehra asked, already stuffing the stack into her bag.

He drew closer, wrapped his arm around her, and gave her a wry grin.

“Then I suppose you'll have to come back to return them, sometime.”

The hand on her hip felt strangely nice.

 

 


	25. Chapter 25

A/n: This chapter contains descriptions of drug use and sexual violence, as well as some non-violent sexual content. NSFW. Just a heads up.

 

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"Asking Vehk to speak without riddles is like asking a snake to please stand up and walk, just this once." – Hasphat Antabolis_

 

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He died when it happened. It ought to have surprised him that the Void didn't take the opportunity to snatch him before the ritual was complete, but at the time, he'd been too terrified and in pain to think of it.

The moment Erich dipped his new staff into the Font of Madness, all of the blood in his body seeped out and his heart stopped. He remembered, vaguely, gasping for air and tumbling face-first into the water. He was dead, cold, and terrified.

Then, the blood of Padomay seeped in through his skin, filing him with divinity. He'd forgotten what it felt like, and what the ritual did to him.

Perhaps, picking up Vivec from Molag Bal reminded him. He wondered if the Tribunal died for their power as he did, but –

It was highly unlikely.

And it was unlikely that the other Daedric Princes knew how Erich became Sheogorath, and they didn't have to know.

Sheogorath sighed and glanced around the room. He was trying, oh so hard.

The preparations hadn't taken much effort, but he checked and rechecked them thoroughly until he was certain that he'd go insane – even moreso than he already was – from obsessing over the details.

Rose petals lay scattered around his bedchambers. The scent of incense was heady throughout the room, and a pipe with skooma, a tray of greenmote, and a bowl of moonsugar rocks lay in the center of a cluster of soft, deep floor pillows. He even went so far as to have the gold sheets put on his bed.

His prize was healed, cleaned up, groomed, and wrapped from head to toe in finery that accentuated his exotic beauty: gold, pearls, gems, a tiny bit of silk to cover the exciting parts.

There was nothing left to do now but wait, and he was never good at waiting.

“You're nervous. Why?”

Sheogorath glanced over at Vivec and bit his lip.

“Did your age catch up with you?” the poet asked.

Erich frowned and narrowed his eyes. What did he mean by that?

Other than Mehra, everyone he'd known in his mortal life was long dead. He'd live on, eternally youthful, while the mortal plane scarred and aged with each passing second.

But even with that, he felt like an infant compared to the other Daedric Princes. After all, they were there since the beginning of time.

So yes, he supposed that in many ways, his age did catch up with him.

“More importantly,” Vivec pondered, “Who is coming to visit? You wouldn't have me decorated so nicely if you didn't want to show off your new captive.”

Then, in a quiet mumble: “You're not going to show me off to the Three, are you?”

Sheogorath chuckled. “I ought to,” he admitted, “but I don't want them attempting to steal my things. No, tonight, you'll have the pleasure of meeting –”

The door swung open to reveal Haskill. Stepping into the room, he bowed. “Lord Sheogorath,” he announced, “your esteemed guest has arrived. Shall I show him in?”

He shook his head. “No, I'll go to meet him.”

“As you wish, Master.”

Erich walked toward the door quickly, then turned back toward his new –

Prisoner? Captive? Shivering Islander?

Whatever.

“Don't be nervous,” Erich said, “this is a nice surprise.”

Quickly, he disappeared through the door, half-listening to the mortal's comment about having his doubts. Sheogorath wound his way through the palace and stopped in the empty throne room to see Sanguine standing there, dressed handsomely for the occasion in a long, red, belted loincloth and intricately embroidered cape. Long strands of jewels and gold adorned his neck, and the large, golden rings in his nipples were a nice touch.

Mm.

“What's that look about?” Sanguine chuckled.

Erich shook his head. “It's impolite.”

“Tell me,” Sanguine purred, sauntering over to him. The wide swath of skin he showed revealed black skin striped with red, a detail Erich had forgotten during their first, drug-induced coupling.

How could he have forgotten the devil, of all things?

“I want to choke you with those necklaces,” he admitted.

“Sounds nice,” Sanguine replied. “You gonna have your way with me?”

His eyes closed as Sanguine wrapped his arm around his shoulder and turned his chin with his other hand to kiss him.

As Sheogorath opened his eyes – his vision was growing dark – he realized that perhaps, this wasn't a good idea. He already so close to–

“Now, what's this call about?” Sanguine asked. He took a lock of Sheogorath's hair in his hand and twirled it around his finger.

Sheogorath shook his head violently, forcing himself out of the strange spell. “I have something to show you,” he said.

With that, he took Sanguine's arm in his and led him through the palace, back toward his bedchambers.

“I like your surprises,” Sanguine chuckled. “Let me guess: You're going to let me have your ass?”

Erich blinked in shock. He was always forward with what he wanted when he was younger – still was, to some extent – but he'd never met anyone quite like Sanguine who said exactly as he thought, with absolutely no repercussions.

“You're welcome to,” Erich mumbled, “I mean, that is, I rarely let it happen before but I made exceptions.”

Xedilian's sirens! Why was he letting Sanguine fluster him? He was Sheogorath! He was –

Really lonely at the top.

Oh.

“Who did you make exceptions for?” Sanguine asked, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Never anyone whose name I knew,” he replied. “And never anyone I'd call on again.”

They stopped in front of the bedroom door and Erich put his hand on the handle. Sanguine leaned in and cupped his chin in his hand.

“Did you fantasize about someone?” Sanguine asked, his voice dark.

Erich closed his eyes and let his back thump against the door as he sighed.

“My boss,” he admitted. “His name was Lucien. He was tied up in work so much that he didn't care about sex in the least. I always liked –”

Older men, at least, when he was on the bottom.

Sanguine closed the distance between them and pulled him in for a passionate kiss, bringing the scent of roses and smoke with him. As Sanguine dominated him – temporarily; he'd get the upper hand soon – the hand that rested on the doorknob pushed down with a mind of its own.

They tumbled through the door in a tangle of passion, a pair of feminine giggles snapping Sheogorath out of the moment. He cleared his throat and stepped away from his guest.

Good; they were already there.   
  
Sheogorath turned to the two women who entered the room after he'd left and motioned toward them.

“My esteemed guest,” he announced, “I have the pleasure of introducing my generals to you, in no particular order.”

Sheogorath motioned toward the one closest to him, a statuesque beauty of a daedra. Like other Golden Saints, her skin, hair, and eyes were all of a similar golden hue.

“This is Staada,” he said, “General and Commander of my Golden Saints, Defender of Mania.”

She bowed before Sanguine, his unique appearance giving away his identity without a word.

His other general quickly bowed as well, dark purple hair tumbling over the plum skin of her shoulders.

“And this,” Sheogorath, “is Dylora, General and Commander of the Dark Seducers, Defender of Dementia.”

Sanguine grinned at the beautiful daedra before him. “Well, this is a nice surprise.”

“Oh, that's not your surprise,” he laughed. “That's your surprise.” He pointed toward the bed, where the terrified mortal knelt.

Sanguine peered over at the bed and gasped in shock.

“Want to borrow him?” Erich chuckled.

Sanguine nodded. “Now this is one hell of a present,” he whistled. “If I weren't so greedy, I'd be embarrassed by all this attention!”

He stalked toward the bed, stood over the mortal, and gently lifted his chin with a clawed finger to stare into his two-toned eyes.

“Do you know who I am, pretty thing?” Sanguine murmured.

“I believe you may be Sanguine,” the mortal replied, his voice meek.

“Correct.”

Sanguine let go of the mortal, who immediately slumped. Shaking his head, he turned to Sheogorath and gave him a nod.

“So, where did you find him?” he asked.

“Molag Bal had him in his dungeon,” Sheogorath answered.

Staada and Dylora both scowled while Sanguine shook his head. Everyone knew what Molag Bal was about.

“And,” Sheogorath chuckled, “I got him through a wager. The idiot thought that I'd be some fool and underestimated me due to my age. Out loud even! He told me that I was new to this so surely he'd win!”

Sanguine threw his head back and howled in laughter, the generals joining in. Even the mortal had a small chuckle at his abuser's expense.

Sitting down on the bed with a flop, Sanguine turned to the mortal again, wrapped his arm around him, and drew him in closely.

“Given where you've been for the past two hundred or so years,” he murmured, “you don't have to touch anyone you don't want to tonight, alright?”

He turned to pin Sheogorath with a serious look. “Right?” Sanguine asked.

Sheogorath held his hands up in defense. “I figured it was a moot point, given that you're irresistible.”

“Oh, stop! I am not drunk or high enough for this talk!” Sanguine huffed. “You don't have to seduce me; you've already got me.”

Erich laughed and motioned toward the area of pillows. The daedra present made their way over, while the mortal looked on in trepidation.

“Come join us, mortal,” Sheogorath called. “Smoke a pipe; ease your mind a little.”

Vivec visibly steeled himself before standing and padding across the floor to join the daedra who had just taken their seats. Staring at what was available, he seemed to think about where to sit for a moment, before making up his mind.

He stepped across the pillows to sit on Sheogorath's lap, most certainly attempting a survival tactic of sorts.

And while he wished that the mortal paid attention to their guest, he didn't mind his decision; it was a wise one, after all.

Erich leaned over, keeping one hand on the company seated on his lap, and grabbed the tray of greenmote. He sat back up and brought his mouth down to the mortal's ear.

“Don't do this green one,” he said. “It's greenmote, and all the legends about it are true. Do you want some skooma instead? Moonsugar?”

“Sugar's fine,” the mortal mumbled.

He couldn't help but turn his head to kiss Vivec's golden cheek. Surprisingly enough, he didn't flinch away from the touch.

Maybe the mortal liked him? Erich found the thought odd; he was, after all, a daedra in a 'Northern Barbarian' skin.

Shrugging it off, he focused on having fun and showing his guest a good time. They drank, smoked, and told stories – some of them downright raunchy – as the night wore on.

Sheogorath even told them one of his more embarrassing stories from when he was a mortal.

“I knew something was off about it,” Erich admitted. “I mean, here's this woman telling me to come to an abandoned farmhouse so I can fuck her and all of her friends. But she had her hand on me under the table – stroking me – and my brain was completely dead because I hadn't been fucked in at least two weeks.”

“And you really fell for it?” Sanguine snorted.

“I was suspicious of it,” he shrugged. “Especially when I got there and the one girl was the only one there. Told me to take off my clothes and wait for them to join me in bed. No offense to your pals, Sanguine, but I've never needed to visit brothels to get laid.”

“Turns out that they were running a robbery ring,” Erich explained. “They'd get the guys there, tell them to strip, take their stuff, then send them packing. The guys were too embarrassed to make a fuss over being robbed. They'd pick people of status or married men. Unfortunately for them, I already had a nasty reputation in some parts.”

“How so?” Sanguine asked.

Erich shook his head. “I extorted the Skingrad Mages Guild hall leader into giving me a recommendation. I was a filthy, untrained Gifted, and here I was attempting to seduce her daughter. I told her I'd leave the girl alone if she wrote me a recommendation. Of course, too bad for her that I already de-virginized the poor thing by the time she wrote it. So, yeah, I had a bit of a reputation.”

Dylora grinned and turned toward him. “Cunning and cruel even as a mortal, Lord,” she purred.

Staada narrowed her eyes at the rival general. “Defender of justice” she countered, “A muse of song and art for centuries for his deeds of heroism.”

“And terror,” Dylora hissed.

Sanguine laughed and wrapped his arms around the women. “A scumbag and a saint, eh?”

“Quite accurate,” Sheogorath nodded. “I've proven that it's possible to be both at the same time.”

Leaning over, Sanguine captured his mouth in a quick kiss. “Which one will you be tonight, I wonder?” he murmured.

“Equal parts naughty and nice, naturally,” Erich chuckled.

He was leaning more toward naughty, if he were honest with himself. Sanguine prodded him the entire night with bawdy questions, constant caresses, and multiple propositions so explicitly stated that they'd make a prostitute blush.

Vivec twisted in his lap – and he knew damn well that the mortal felt his 'problem' – and reached his gray arm toward Sanguine. Cupping his cheek in his hand, the mortal leaned in to Sanguine for a tentative kiss that was so shy and sweet that it had Erich enraptured from the sight of it. When they parted, Sanguine took the mortal's hand in his.

“Curious, then?” he asked. “I'll be as mild as a kitten, promise.”

“I will as well,” Staada declared.

Dylora turned her bright blue eyes to Sheogorath and licked her lips. “If my Lord wishes it,” she purred, “he may crush my neck with his fangs.”

He closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath. He'd done that many times before with her; killed her physical being outright on a few occasions. Their coupling was always violent.

It was part of the perks of being immortal, he supposed. The consequences of anything were minimal at best. When he was with either general, the respective side of madness that they preferred was always brought out in him.

But with anyone else – with anyone sane, especially – it was a tossup as to what he'd do. Demented blackouts were a problem when he wanted to keep his partner alive.

But Sanguine! Surely Sanguine would aid him into gentleness, given how he desired to treat the mortal.

So he joined his two rival generals, another Daedra Lord, and a mortal who was once a god in bed. Quickly, clothes and armor were tossed aside; the mortal appeared awestruck – entranced, even – at the sight of the Gods before him, and to some lesser extent, the exemplary daedra women. Everything went swimmingly, until Sanguine decided to needle him in a very specific way.

“What's it going to take for you to savage me?” Sanguine purred.

Bliss preserve him, he'd already had one foot in Dementia the moment Sanguine showed up. But now – now he wasn't so sure if he could keep his grip on his gentler, non-savage side, not with Sanguine suggesting these things to him and keeping a firm grip on his –

“You're,” he gasped, “you're going to turn me. Watch it.”

Erich's eyes slid shut as Sanguine planted a kiss next to his ear. The hand that stroked him did so in a way that made him want to scream.

“Maybe I want you to turn,” the devil whispered.

And that was all it took.

When he came to, there was blood in his mouth, running down his chin. Bright red stained the white hair that trailed down the lower part of his stomach, leading to a lap covered in blood.

Ashamed, he glanced around at the bed's occupants, wondering who he ought to apologize to. As a mortal, he was a consummate gentleman with each of his lovers. This violence certainly was a byproduct of the demented side of his madness.

His eyes landed on a series of oozing bite marks dotting the back of Sanguine's neck and shoulders. If anyone could handle him at his worst, Sanguine could. Still, he wished it hadn't happened that way.

“Sanguine, my brother,” he murmured, drawing closer to the weaker Prince.

Weaker.

That was the problem; even though Sanguine was immortal, he could accidentally destroy the form he inhabited and banish him back to his realm to recuperate. And banishing him by accident would have been a grave mistake.

Sanguine moaned quietly and shielded his eyes in the crook of his elbow.

“Lord Sanguine is resilient,” Staada purred. “A God among the immortals.”

“He certainly is,” Sheogorath confirmed. “Most lovely and excellent. Wonderful parties and wonderful times.”

Despite his condition, Sanguine grinned and moved his arm to wrap around the Saint's shoulders.

“The mortal cowered in the face of your prowess, Lord Sheogorath,” Dylora chuckled. “That serves him right, pretending to be a god for as long as he did.”

Erich nodded and turned his eyes to the sleeping Chim–Dun –

Whatever race Vivec was, anyway.

“He's a pretty thing, isn't he?” Staada murmured, her eyes drawn to the exotic mortal asleep in the bed.

He nodded in agreement. “A little treasure,” he agreed. “Uh, nobody hurt him, right?”

“No, Lord,” Dylora confirmed.

Sanguine turned to him with a concerned look. “He cried most of the time.”

“Molag Bal certainly did a number on him,” Erich said, noting how the unconscious mortal shivered at the sound of his former captor's name.

Staada's brows furrowed in worry. “We must teach him passion and song again,” she whispered. “He's a poet, yes? Mania would love to have him.”

“And his temple hunted down anyone who spoke against him,” Dylora countered. “Dementia could use his tactics.”

The generals sat up in bed and glared at each other, ready to start a fight.

“Ladies,” Sheogorath sighed, “he is free to explore both sides of madness as he chooses. Of course, I will keep an eye on him, given his past. But I am certain that Molag Bal nearly ruined him. It is my hope that Lord Sanguine would help me in rehabilitating him to some capacity.”

“I – hm,” Sanguine mused. “That would be interesting.”

Erich leaned over to heal the deep punctures he left in Sanguine's skin, but the other daedra waved him away.

“I like them,” Sanguine explained. “I survived one hell of a wild ride. Should show them to Mephala.”

He pursed his lips. “Mephala?”

“Yeah, we're close. She's absolutely captivating,” Sanguine nodded. “You should come meet her sometime. Really, you've got to meet everyone in some capacity sooner or later. Get the easy ones out of the way first. Maybe I should host a party.”

Sheogorath nodded in agreement, but wasn't sure about the idea. Of course, he would have to meet the other Daedric Princes. It just seemed so sudden. He'd only been himself for two hundred years!

But, he supposed there was no way out of it, not if he wanted to keep up his – whatever this was – with Sanguine.

 

* * *

 

In all his years on the mortal plane, Neloth was certain of one thing:

Honesty was a rare trait.

There was a time for one to use it, and a time for one to guard their secrets. Were he in the same position as Mehra, Neloth wouldn't have mentioned his affiliation with one of the most dangerous and powerful Daedra Lords. But hearing the words come from Mehra made him greatly appreciate her candor, given what she had at stake from telling him. While he did prompt her with a question of sorts, Neloth didn't want to cause a confrontation over the entire thing. Rather, he wanted it to be her idea to mention it, after a fashion.

He also appreciated her honesty because it put his mind somewhat at ease as to the reason behind Sheogorath's visit to his tower some time ago:

He assumed that Sheogorath wished to protect and care for the girl, in his own twisted way. Neloth respected that; regardless of her daedric affiliations, he had no improper or ill-willed intentions toward her.

As far as her past relationship with a man who was so young and dashing at one point – still was, if one discounted the insanity – he'd write it off entirely, so long as the young Sheogorath allowed them to go about their business as they pleased. He'd go so far as to even share, so long as he wasn't privy to the particulars of said sharing. He didn't own the woman, after all.

Neloth found himself curious as to what that man had to do in order to attain such a status. Likely, it was a dark and profane ritual.

He walked down the path that led out from his tower, his eyes landing on the ancient obelisk off to the side. Apparently, Raven Rock was still having issues with their people coming under control of theirs.

He wondered what could have caused such a thing. After all, he hadn't heard reports of similar occurrences elsewhere on Solstheim, but the barbarians who lived toward the center of the island didn't speak with outsiders, though they were known to be quite hospitable to visitors.

He'd have to ask when he arrived at the Skaal village, he supposed.

A faint glow near the obelisk out front of his tower made him pause. It looked a bit like smoke or ash drifting in the wind, but the light that emanated from it was quite abnormal.

Neloth sighed from beneath the silken scarf wrapped around his mouth. This was a trap, wasn't it?

Unfortunately for whomever was powering the stone at Raven Rock, Neloth was much more than a mere wizard: he was the world's master enchanter, and a master of schools of magic and spells the number of which he'd forgotten.

He trudged over to the stone, stopped at the short step in front of it, and crossed his arms.

“Well,” Neloth groused, “What do you want, then?”

The wisp of light grew in brightness.

“Your mind,” it replied.

Old Atmoran-barbarian accent. Male.

It figured, really. How droll.

“Everyone wishes they had even half of my mind,” Neloth said. “I'm a powerful wizard; I am Neloth, Telvanni Master.”

“Telvanni?” he replied. “I have read of this clan. You are a descendant of the Velothi dissidents. Your daedra overlords changed the color of your skin, marking your race as their own.”

“The color of my skin does not dictate whom I serve,” he snapped. “I do as I please.”

The man behind the mist chuckled, a most irritating sound.

“Then we have something in common, Master Wizard,” the barbarian replied. “Let me introduce myself: I am Miraak, first Dragonborn, rebel against the dragon overlords, and Champion of Hermaeus Mora.”

Hermaeus Mora? Then this man was a slave in fancy trappings. And the name –

Miraak. Yes, the name was familiar. Supposedly, he'd been dead for thousands of years. But, given that Hermaeus Mora had him, it was certain that the Daedric Prince kept him alive at his whim.

“I have been in Apocrypha for some ten thousand years,” Miraak continued, “at least, as far as I can calculate it. I am certain that you've seen my handiwork in Raven Rock.”

Ten thousand years in Apocrypha; this man had all that time to read from Mora's library.

“It is an interesting trick,” Neloth shrugged.

The wind picked up around the stone. “Do not patronize me,” Miraak hissed, “you know that it is impressive. I will speak plainly, Wizard: My wish is to return to the mortal plane.”

He uncrossed his arms and shifted his weight. “No women in Apocrypha, I take it?” Neloth chuckled.

“None.”

Neloth nodded. Fair enough, he supposed. And Hermaeus Mora likely didn't care for such things; that was the stuff of Mephala, Sanguine, and Molag Bal.

“That is not why I want to leave,” Miraak said.

He raised a brow at the spectral mist. Other than knowledge, what else was there worth in existence? Apocrypha had endless knowledge.

In fact, his original plan was to locate Black Books to see if they had hidden knowledge of where Elder Scrolls were located. It was worth a try, at least.

“I figured,” the barbarian continued, “that since your power is great enough that I cannot control you, that you may wish to work with me. Certainly I would have knowledge of interest to you.”

Neloth frowned. Absolutely not. Unless –

Yes, this could work perfectly. Neloth changed his mind.

“I want an Elder Scroll,” he said.

“You– surely–”

“I want an Elder Scroll.”

There was a long pause.

“You have expensive taste,” Miraak grumbled. “I can look for one, but I cannot guarantee–”

“No scroll; no help,” Neloth said.

“Then consider it done,” he replied. “Your intelligence and cooperation are very valuable to me. I shall speak to you again once I locate one.”

Neloth nodded. “Excellent.”

“Until later, Master Neloth,” Miraak said. The glowing mist around the stone shimmered for a brief second before disappearing on the wind.

Neloth shook his head, stepped away from the stone, and continued down the road. He lived long enough to know when someone was being dishonest, and this Miraak fellow sounded greasier than a Hlaalu council member.

As soon as Miraak was back on the mortal plane, he'd immediately betray him. And Neloth wasn't about to give him the opportunity to do so.

He had no intentions of helping him in the slightest. Once he had the Elder Scroll he needed, he'd sever his ties. And, he'd get the scroll through the best possible means:

Delegation.

He didn't have to put in the effort, and Mehra would certainly respond with gratitude.

Not that he needed her gratitude; they worked well without having to answer to each other. Neloth wanted to keep it that way. Women lost their enthusiasm when they felt as if they owed something.

He didn't want that enthusiasm to go away anytime soon; she was a gem of a young thing.

Oh, how she begged the other night. Somehow, their second meeting was even better than the first. And, she called him 'Master' the whole time.

Neloth certainly didn't object to that. He was a master of many things, after all.

He'd have no trouble keeping her secret from Aryon. If the upstart Archmagister truly thought of Mehra as his adopted child as he so claimed, then Neloth didn't want to start trouble by letting him anywhere near where he could discover the intimate nature of their acquaintanceship.

Perhaps, once this was sorted out with Alduin, he'd take her to Nchardak to aid him in recovering the Black Book hidden away inside the ruins. Surely, she knew her way around Dwemer ruins, and had the athleticism to do some of the more difficult tasks.

In the meantime, he figured he ought to visit one of the other standing stones on the island to see if there was more going on. And, given that the stones were sacred to the Skaal, they were the ones who would likely know the most. They might also know the location of more Black Books, which could be of benefit.

He'd be careful, of course; he took Sheogorath's warning about the books causing insanity seriously. His mind was his most precious possession, after all, and insanity would ruin it.

Neloth trudged through the ash and the remnants of snow toward the northeastern end of the island, huffing with each step of rough terrain. While exertion never bothered him much, he was admittedly not used to hiking through icy hinterland.

Vvardenfell was so warmed by the volcanic climate that one often hiked half-naked – according to Western, human standards – to keep from overheating. At least, that was as he remembered it thousands of years ago. As soon as his research on the heartstones was done here, he'd move back to Vvardenfell and enjoy paradise once again.

He continued onward, the realization that he could recall back to his tower moving him forward one cold, irritating step at a time.

Hours later, he climbed the steep hill that led to the Skaal Village and stopped at the top. There were a few dozen buildings of thick timber, practical and unornate. At the far end was a smithy of sorts, and not far from it, a thick-walled stable. They were impoverished peasants, certainly, but what they lacked in wealth, they apparently made up for in cleanliness.

Villagers paused in their work to stare at him. Likely, they hadn't seen such finery before, nor had they seen a Dunmer who stood tall enough to look them directly in the eye.

“You there!” a woman called. “What brings you to our village?”

Neloth turned to see a pale, blond Nord woman in heavy plate armor approaching him.

“We are welcoming to visitors,” she said, “but we are on hard times, and it is very unsafe around the village.”

“Ah,” he said, “so it is happening here, too. Fascinating.”

“Too?” the woman repeated, “it is happening elsewhere? My father, Storn, our shaman, says that this is Miraak's doing. But that is impossible. Is that why you are here? To look into this evil?”

“Somewhat.”

“Then I must take you to speak with my father,” she said. “I am Frea. Who are you?”

She was much too casual with him, but he figured this was simply a peasant way of speaking.

“I am Master Neloth,” he replied. “I built the mushroom tower to the south, and I live there.”

The Skaal gasped and backed away, her eyes wide. “You're the wizard,” she whispered, as if she couldn't believe it.

He'd seen some of their scouts come down from the north and stop at the border to his tower. None of them dared come close, superstitious as they were.

“Frea, do we have company?” a man called. He stepped out of a nearby building, tottering on feeble legs toward them. The man was in his twilight years – a mere seventy or so as a human.

Neloth couldn't fathom such a short life. He was thousands of years old, yet through magic, only looked to be about one-hundred: middle-aged and definitely not old, according to Dunmer standards.

“Ah, yes, Father,” she replied. “This is – this is the wizard who lives to the south, Neloth.”

“Indeed?” the shaman said. “Come inside and warm up. Have some tea.”

Tea?

Well, alright.

“We probably do not have the kind of tea you are used to,” the elder admitted. “Mostly sagebrush.”

The door closed behind him as he followed them into their home. In comparison to his tower, it was a mere shack. But, if he compared his current tower to his old tower in Sadrith Mora, he too, lived in a shack.

A downsize made it difficult for him to store all of his things – had to get rid of the plan for the dungeon below the ground and use it instead for storage. Political intrigue and the like was much less common nowadays, anyway; there was no reason for him to capture Redoran councilor's daughters in order to have said councilors do his bidding.

Still, a dungeon added a bit of spice to life. Once the tower grew more, he'd have to relocate the storage and get the dungeon going.

“Sagebrush tea is very bitter, father,” the girl mumbled.

“Excellent,” Neloth interjected.

Bitter was good; if a tea fought its way down, then it was worth drinking. Otherwise, it was merely hot water.

Neloth tugged the scarf down from his face, grateful to be rid of the thing for a few minutes.

Quietly, the girl set about her task, her face growing worried until she couldn't hold her words in any longer.

“Father, he says that he knows of the mind control,” she blurted.

Ah, to be young and impulsive.

“Do you?” the Shaman said. “Would you agree, then, that this is Miraak's doing? That is, if you have heard of him.”

The girl placed an earthen saucer of tea in front of him. “I can confirm it,” Neloth said.

“I do not doubt you,” Storn replied. “How did you come to know this?”

Neloth took a sip of the tea and felt warmth seep back into his body. It was appropriately bitter.

“He told me,” Neloth shrugged. “He wants me to work with him, given he has been unable to activate the stone outside my tower with my magic in place.”

“No!” the girl cried. “You mustn't work with him!”

Neloth sighed and peered at her from over the rim of his teacup. “Do I look like somebody's patsy, girl?” he drawled.

She furrowed her brow, the colloquialism lost on her.

“I've no plans to work for him,” he explained. “I do not work for anybody, not even the Archmagister.”

“I figured not,” the Shaman replied. “Surely you must have sensed what kind of person Miraak is.”

“I know of him.”

“Not many do,” he said. “It was a very long time ago. Thousands and thousands of years. Our people have passed his story down through the generations. He is the betrayer, and associated with Herma Mora.”

“Now,” the Shaman continued, “given that you are a man who works for himself, my assumption is that you are not here to check on us. What do you need?”

Neloth took another sip of his tea and placed it on the saucer. The man was astute, at the very least.

“Black Books,” he shrugged.

Frea recoiled in horror, while her father held up his hand to motion that she stay silent.

“Surely you know that they are dangerous,” Storn said.

“I do.”

“Herma Mora created them. He is dangerous,” the shaman emphasized.

“One of the most dangerous of the Daedric Princes,” Neloth confirmed. “I seek knowledge. I also seek an Elder Scroll.”

“I assume that you are old and wise enough to know that your very soul is on the line if you make a mistake,” the village elder murmured.

“Over three thousand years, yes.”

The old man shook his head in awe, and while Neloth didn't like to drop his age often, he needed their cooperation.

“You haven't lived so long that you would be intentionally foolish,” he shrugged. “So I suppose I will tell you: there is one of these books, presumably, in the dwarven ruins known as Nchardak.”

Damn.

“Found that one,” Neloth sighed. “Any more?”

The shaman shook his head. “That is all I know of,” he replied. “You must know; we do not seek these things out. I am curious, however: Why do you want an Elder Scroll?”

Neloth downed the last of his tea and stood. “The fate of the world hangs in the balance.”

Yuck. He didn't want to get involved with this, but truly, Mehra needed his help with this Elder Scroll. Being an important man was such a chore, sometimes.

“I wish you luck, then,” Frea mumbled, her expression dubious.

With that, he left the Skaal village, quite certain that the lot of them thought he was a kook. Well, it was no matter; he had things to do that involved important research.

In the meantime, he'd keep this Miraak business to himself. He'd get an Elder Scroll out of Hermaeus Mora's prisoner, then he'd ignore any further requests for help.

Mehra didn't need to know a thing about it.

Miraak simply wasn't of her concern.

 

* * *

 

Carrying severed heads into Whiterun was multitudes more suspicious than the daedric artifacts she carried daily. Mehra triple-wrapped them in whatever she could find from the witches' hovel, making sure she drained as much of the blood out of them as possible. After that, she took whatever herbs and flowers she could from their camp, as well as the surrounding wilds, and dumped them into the bag in an attempt to mask the smell of decay.

Mehra shifted the large sack of heads on her back and steeled herself as she approached the front gate to Whiterun. Ever dutiful, the guards at the front of the gate checked a line of people who waited to get inside. They looked up and saw her approach the back of the line.

“Hail, Companion!” they called, their eyes smiling behind their helmets.

Oh, she had to tell this one to Erich. He'd roll on the floor laughing about the time the Whiterun guard caught her with severed heads in her bag.

From what she knew of him, he pulled similar kinds of stunts back in Cyrodiil. He told her stories of all his exploits: turning a castle party at Leyawiin naked through a spell at Sanguine's behest, taking the last known Great Welkynd stone from its crypt, of stealing an Elder Scroll from the Imperial Library, and of taking Talos' armor from his final resting place.

Bringing severed witch heads into a city that was suspicious of mages? Really, she could call the whole thing 'doing an Erich'.

Maybe, she'd be the one to make him laugh, for a change.

A man wearing bright colors – officer, perhaps – ran across the top of the city wall toward the front.

“Stop the line!” he shouted. “Don't let anybody in!”

The line of people murmured among themselves and cast a perplexed look up at the man on the wall.

“Companion!” the man called. “You'd better get in right away and go to Jorrvaskr.”

Mehra frowned as the guards opened the gate to let her in, keeping the others back.

Something must have happened.

She jogged through the city, the sack of heads knocking into her back.

“Hurry, Companion!” a man called. “Have your blade ready!”

Swearing, Mehra broke out into a run, ditching the bag of heads at the bottom of the stairs to Jorrvaskr. Aela and Torvar stood out front, their weapons drawn but at ease. At Aela's feet lay a slain enemy with a distinct silver blade.

Her heart fell.

Silver Hand. They got into the city and came after the Companions.

Aela kicked the corpse in front of her and spat toward another further up the stairs. “These two won't be a problem anymore. Good kill, Torvar.”

She looked up to give Mehra a nod. “Got them all, I think,” she said. “Let's go up and have a look, just in case. Get the bag, Torvar.”

With that, Mehra and Aela jogged up the stairs and threw the door open to Jorrvaskr. Vilkas ran up to Mehra with a scowl on his face as soon as she entered, his blade dripping with blood.

“You!” he shouted.

Mehra looked behind him to see Athis on the floor in a pool of blood, moaning in pain.

“Where were you?” Vilkas seethed. “If you were here, then –”

“Later,” Mehra interrupted. She shoved past him and ran to Athis.

“T-they c-cut me down on their way to him,” he hissed. “Stood in front of him to protect him. Outnumbered.”

She laid her hands on his chest and directed him to lie down. Delirious, Athis fought against her.

“F-failed,” he continued. “Failed m-miserably. I'm so s-sorry, Lady.”

Mehra blinked away the growing tears in her eyes. “Lay down, buddy,” she murmured. “Let me heal you. You did your best, alright?”

What he said didn't make sense, but she supposed she'd know soon enough.

Finally, he rested back against the floor. Mehra put her hands on him again and whispered a quick prayer to Azura for guidance. Closing her eyes, she searched with her mind for the wound – wasn't hard to find – and concentrated on trying to knit it back together.

“You acted with honor,” Njada said. “A true Companion.”

Mehra nodded quietly in agreement. There was a commotion in the corner, but she couldn't look for fear of messing the spell up.

Slowly, she put his organs back in place and fused them back together with magic. Her body heated up with the effort, a bead of sweat rolling down her brow. Then, she closed the muscles and skin up, leaving a faint scar on his stomach where the silver dagger pierced him.

Had he been a werewolf, he would have been dead in seconds. Maybe, the Silver Hand thought all the Companions were werewolves.

Mehra looked up to the corner of the hall to where Farkas and Aela knelt and –

Oh no.

She was too late.

The red-faced Aela shook her head. “They got him,” she said, her voice breaking. Aela brought a shaking hand up to pull her hair away from her face. “By Talos, they got him.”

Aela brought her fist down on the floor, a loud thump and crack resounding through the hall.

“God dammit! Not Kodlak!”

Vilkas ran across the hall to Aela and took her into his arms. She stood there and shook without making a sound, her face buried against his shoulder.

“Where were you?” Vilkas hissed, staring over Aela to glare at Mehra. “Where were you when we needed you? Kodlak could still be alive if you were here!”

“That's not fair, brother!” Farkas interjected. He stood immediately and stared him down, tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Like hell it isn't!” Vilkas shouted. “We're orphans again!”

Mehra swallowed and glanced over at Kodlak's body. Maybe, it was better that nobody who raised her cared for her. Because maybe, maybe if losing a loved one hurt this badly, it was better that she never had–

The front door to Jorrvaskr opened as Torvar entered with the bag Mehra abandoned at the bottom of the stairs.

“Pardon,” he coughed, “but why the hell do you have a bag full of hagraven heads?”

Mehra sighed, her shoulders hunching. “Those were to help cure Kodlak,” she said.

“Oh,” he shrugged. “Well, I suppose –”

Torvar looked across the hall and dropped his sword in shock. “Arkay's asshole! They got Kodlak! Shit!”

Vilkas swayed on his feet as he rocked Aela in an attempt to soothe her. She mumbled something into his shoulder.

“I know,” he murmured, “I know, Aela.”

Mehra sighed and looked down at the floor. She was the eldest, now. Technically, she always was, but, given the circumstances, she had to take charge in some way. The remaining members of the Circle needed her.

Farkas turned toward his right and squinted. “Were uh,” he mumbled, “were we putting the shards of Wuuthrad somewhere else?”

“No,” Vilkas frowned. “Why?”

Farkas' eyes widened in shock. “Shit! They took them!”

Mehra glanced over to the display case to see that the fragments were indeed gone. It was one thing to perform an honor purging as a religious rite or the like. It was another thing entirely to steal the pieces of a famed, historical weapon on top of an attack.

“They did it to taunt us,” Mehra scowled. “They want us to run on in to their hideout so they can kill us.”

Vilkas turned to her and gave her a nod. “You and me, Dragonborn,” he said. “We'll go there together, and we'll kill every last one of them. Let's go first thing in the morning.”

“Done.”

She fought hordes of ash creatures, and self-proclaimed gods.

A pack of scum with silver weapons didn't stand a chance against her.

And they would feel all of her rage.

 

 

 


	26. Chapter 26

A/n: I shared this with my brother, and now I'll share it with you all so you can join in on the misery: If Erich and Mehra ever had a song, it'd be Digital Love by Daft Punk. Missing each other by a thread, together only in their dreams. #feels #readanddespair #hashtag

Massive chapter here. I hope it makes up for the delay in getting it out! I've had some medical issues lately that have interfered with being able to write.

 

* * *

_By superhuman effort, you can avoid slipping backwards for a while. But one day, you'll lose a step, or drop a beat, or miss a detail... and you'll be gone forever._

* * *

 

Kodlak's Journal.

  
It appears that we have a dragonborn in our midst, tiny though she may be.

Njada does not like this woman. Though she is strong of heart, Njada has a lot to learn on the way of patience. Ria, however, seems fond of the newcomer.

Her name is Mehra. She's clearly been starved, whether from prison, or from poor luck, I do not know. But Farkas tells me that she was excellent when aiding him in retrieving the fragment of Wuuthrad from the cairn. And, she did so with honor and protected him against the Silver Hand.

So, we inducted her into the Companions officially. She knows our secret, but she is the one I saw in my dreams.

Mehra will save the Companions from our curse.

 

* * *

My heart is conflicted tonight. Mehra returned from a journey to Solstheim and said that she spoke with a former contact. Said contact berated her for her current unfortunate condition. She revealed that she is an esteemed wizard from Morrowind.

We do not fight in this manner, however, her skills with a sword are admirable. Mehra has shown nothing but honor since her arrival, and her comments to me that being a werewolf does not make one an abomination were heartfelt.

It is with these thoughts that I agreed with Aela that she join the College of Winterhold. I have grown fond of this girl and her heart. It seems that the Circle – even Vilkas – approves of her as well.

* * *

Skjor is dead. My dearest friend.

I am old, and people that I know and love are continually dying around me. I never get used to it. I think about death often.

I dream of Sovngarde. My time is coming soon.

Skjor and Aela inducted Mehra into the Circle without my knowledge or permission. Their Silver Hand hunting trip led Skjor to his death.

Mehra has been keeping secrets. She is the reincarnation of an ancient dark elf hero – the one who ended the blight on Morrowind and cast down their false gods. With the revelation that she is this, as well as Dragonborn, it is clear that her duties are innumerable. She told us this tonight when she claimed responsibility for Skjor's death – saying that she was the eldest, and therefore, responsible for the actions of her younger peers.

Though untrue that it was her responsibility, I greatly appreciate the honor that she showed in opening up, especially such a deeply kept secret. If said secret were to get out, she would have politicians and charlatans on her heels.

And while I am loathed to admit it, encouraging her to join the College of Winterhold may have been a good decision. She has blossomed under their instruction. And clearly, she is keeping up with her swordsmanship.

I am beginning to think that perhaps, my dream did not point to her as the Harbinger who would save us and succeed me, but as one wizard whom we can trust to carry out our mission of healing our lycanthropy. I cannot ask her to be our Harbinger, not with the possibility that she may be called to end the blight of the dragons as well.

I believe I may consider Aela as my successor, if she can warm up.

When Eorlund and I were talking tonight out by the forge, I asked him to keep an eye on the kids for me when I'm gone. He laughed about it, but he knew what I meant. I raised some of the current Companions, and watched Aela grow up.

And I fiercely love each one of them, stubborn, young, and full of fire as they are.

  
* * *

I am amazed that Aela thinks she can keep a secret among this drunken rabble.

Aela and Mehra have been sneaking around on us, seeking revenge against the Silver Hand for Skjor's death. I fear the counterstrike of retaliation that is coming if they do not stop.

Mehra shows valor, though, even in this underhanded time. I have not had cause to speak with her recently, and I regret it. This evening, we spoke on these matters, and she has shown to be a capable and willing listener. Her strength and maturity are quite apparent in conversation. There is much that the Companions can learn from her, if they open their ears and hearts to listen.

Given her experience with magic and the daedra, I believe it was wisest to send her alone to slay the Glenmoril witches. I did not tell the others of her task, for fear that they would want to accompany her and find themselves in trouble. Mehra is a seasoned warrior, more so than myself, even. If anyone is to do it, it is Mehra.

I also spoke with Aela. The amount of understanding, openness, and maturity she showed reminded me of her mother. She would have been so proud of the woman she's become. I certainly am, and I know her father is.

I think, despite this revenge setback, that we can keep counsel over the next few years, so that I can impart the wisdom of the Harbingers of old to her. She has opened up to Mehra, and in time, I believe that she can learn to open up enough to be an approachable and capable leader.

  
  


* * *

 

He sat in a cluster of floor cushions and sighed as the brush ran through his hair. It was spring today because he wished it so; the coming of spring to the mortal realm inspired him to make it so in his realm. The scent of daffodils, hyacinth, and all things spring drifted through the courtyard on a gentle breeze, bringing the tinkling sound of wind chimes with it.

Though the modest courtyard had quite a few people in it, the place was quiet. His company walked patiently about the garden holding each other’s hands, picking flowers, dipping their toes into the stream, and watching fish in the pond.

Everyone was tranquil today, a rarity on the island. Sometimes, a gentle change in the weather was all that was needed.

“Children, Lord?”

Erich opened his eyes and turned to see Vivec behind him.

“Yes,” he replied. “You know that illness doesn't ask for an age before attacking. If I didn't take them in, nobody would.”

Vivec nodded slowly. No, Sheogorath wasn't all cruelty and danger. Madness was a complex thing.

The girl brushing his hair slowed in her task. “Mr. Vehk,” she said, “you should join us. Lord Sheogorath is going to tell us a story.”

“Yes!” a boy chimed in. “Daddy tells the best stories.”

The corner of Sheogorath's mouth twitched as he fought to hold back a smile. No, he wasn't the child's father. But the delusion was a sweet one, and he couldn't help but let the child think as he pleased.

Vivec caught on to it immediately. “I believe I will,” he said, “that is, if I am permitted.”

And not a word to the boy about his delusion. Good.

“Of course,” he replied. As Sheogorath motioned to the seat to his left, the children playing in the small courtyard ran toward the seating area and plopped down on the silken pillows. Vivec sat next to him and quickly found a child on both of his knees. Unfazed by this, he wrapped his arms around them.

Others brought the flowers they picked and joined the girl behind Sheogorath to fuss over his hair. He'd be decorated for spring in no time.

Even little Billy sat in the back with his gag on, his black eyes staring intently in his direction.

Vivec must have seen him and leaned in to Sheogorath with a frown. “I see Hermaeus Mora's influence in his eyes,” he murmured. “But what's the gag for?”

“Foul blasphemies,” Sheogorath mumbled. “Kid got tangled up in a Black Book. That gag can't be removed in the presence of other mortals.”

The once-god nodded slowly in understanding. It was good that he got it. Sheogorath didn't want to harm the kid, and permitting him to say dirty, awful words that could cause great calamity would be most harmful.

And even Sheogorath liked saying a good blasphemy every now and then. But there was a time and a place for such things!

“Alright, children!” he laughed. “What story will it be today?”

“Can you tell us about Ricky the Squirrel?” one called out.

“No!” another protested. “Martin the Dragon!”

“Oh, yes! Martin the Dragon!” others awed.

Erich laughed. “Does everyone agree then? Is it the story of Martin the Dragon?”

“Yes!” they cried, each excited to hear the story for the umpteenth time.

“Alright then,” he said. “It's my favorite, too. Is everyone comfortable?”

The group of children nodded.

“Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom!”

A lone voice penetrated the silence.

Ah. Lakia was there. His eyes scanned the crowd of children, and sure enough, the little girl was in the back again, hugging her knees and rocking herself. She was a tiny girl, but certainly old enough to have known at one point how to carry a conversation.

“Mom! Mom! Mom!”

The other children were surprisingly patient with her. Likely, she seemed normal to them. But the sane mortal next to Sheogorath clearly found the sight disheartening.

Sheogorath held his arm out and motioned for her to come to him. Lakia bounded over to his side, mumbling 'mom' the entire way. As she buried her face into his chest, he wrapped his arm around her tiny shoulders.

“Lakia,” he murmured, “let's have stillness for a few minutes. Let's forget your mother getting raped and eviscerated before your eyes, hm? I'm going to tell a story. You can hold my hand. Just watch out for the claws, alright?”

The girl sat down on shaky legs and slowly, her 'moms' tapered off into a quiet whimper, followed by silence. A simple touch of his hand put her mind to rest, if only temporarily.

Part of him wanted to rip the memories out of her head, but if he did it, he was quite certain that he'd turn the poor thing into a vegetable. It would be an experiment, if it happened, and she wasn't present enough to provide consent, nor was she capable of comprehending the consequences of failure.

It was better to leave her as-is.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Vivec's shoulders hunch in defeat.

“My heart breaks often,” Erich admitted. “I keep the little ones separate from the adults, and my Saints watch them. They deserve paradise, yes?”

“Absolutely,” Vivec agreed.

He sighed and looked out at the children who waited eagerly for the story. As a mortal, he always promised himself that he'd find a good woman to settle down with and have a gaggle of children, but it never panned out.

After knowing her for a while, he thought that maybe, Mehra could be that woman, the mother of his children. He loved children, and most especially, he loved her. But, it turned out that they both thought too similarly.

Erich was always torn between being a selfish, violent ass and desperately wanting to do the right thing to help those who needed it. He always told himself that he knew who deserved what:

That Glarthir fellow needed to be put out of his misery. Rufio deserved his head caved in. The Guild Hall leader's daughter needed a good lay – from him, naturally. Everyone at that party at Summitmist Manor deserved a cleaver to the skull, a spinning kick to the face, being choked during a moment of passion. Sinderion deserved more Nirnroot than his arms could carry. Corvus Umbranox deserved to be reunited with his wife. Lucien deserved more than a single Sigil Stone given as a shy gift. And Martin Septim–

“Martin deserved more than he got,” Sheogorath began. “You see, Martin was a dragon. Born as one, in a human skin, so he didn't know he was one. He lived most of his life not knowing he was so special.”

He began his story the same way every time:

“Martin deserved more.”

 

* * *

  
  


Mehra stretched and cracked her eyes open, the sight of a timber and stone ceiling greeting her.

She slept in Jorrvaskr with the Companions, the whole lot of them crammed into the newbie bunkroom like a den of wolves. If the Silver Hand decided to come back, they'd be ready; Mehra slept with her sword by her side, prepared to shout the intruders to shreds if they dared to return.

Sitting up, Mehra peered around the room and saw that Aela and Vilkas were absent. In the bed across from hers, Farkas yawned and stretched.

“Morning,” he murmured, the smile he gave her reminding her more of a schoolboy than a warrior.

“Morning,” Mehra replied. Slowly, she stood, hoping that she wouldn't wake the rest of the sleeping Companions. She shifted her armor and sword as best she could and left the room, Farkas following close behind.

As soon as the door clicked behind them, a pair of strong arms enveloped her from behind. Mehra fought the urge to bristle. This was the touchy one. He meant nothing by it. Farkas communicated with his hands.

“Don't listen to my brother,” Farks mumbled. “More than likely, he's angry at himself that he couldn't protect Kodlak. He's quiet and keeps to himself, except for his anger. I – I'm so glad you're going with him. Sometimes he acts without thinking. You'll be there to get him to think.”

Mehra twisted in his arms to return the hug.

“I was like that when I was younger,” she admitted. “Difference is, I was a thug and a serial killer. I'll keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn't do anything rash.”

He tightened his arms around her. “I'm glad.”

Farkas let go and stepped back, his eyes brimming with tears. “Kodlak was my dad, in a way,” he sniffed. “None of us do anything bad with this werewolf thing. They're wrong about us.”

“I know, Farkas. They're dead wrong.”

He sighed, grabbed a nearby chair, and placed it next to the door that led to the bunks. “I'll stay here,” he said. “You go get my brother and give em hell. When you return with Wuuthrad, we'll put Kodlak to rest.”

Mehra nodded and peered down the hall toward the Harbinger's quarters. She was too late to save his soul, but if the rest of the Circle wanted it, she'd find a way to cure them. And maybe, just maybe, she could find a way to work things out with Hircine and bargain for Kodlak's soul.

Sighing, she turned toward the door the led upstairs. There was too much to do, and she was running out of time.

Mehra made her way down the hall, opened the door, and pulled it to close as quietly as possible. Vilkas was likely waiting for her, and Aela was always up early. They were probably right upstairs, waiting for –

“Aela, I waited too long to let you know,” Vilkas murmured. “I – Aela, I have to tell you: I most passionately and ardently love you. I love you, Aela.”

Mehra froze on the stairs, torn between wanting to go back down to leave them in peace, and wanting to make her presence known to avoid awkwardness. They sat facing each other in the hall, both turned away from her enough that it was likely that they couldn't see her.

But they were werewolves.

It was likely that they'd soon know she was there.

Aela swallowed. “Vilkas, you are a noble warrior,” she replied, “and the best friend I could ask for. And I love you, too, in my own way. But I cannot change who I am: I am attracted to women, exclusively.”

He slumped in his chair and put his head in his hands. “I suppose that's my fault, being too private and keeping my feelings to myself. I ought to have said something much earlier.”

“And mine as well,” Aela sighed. “I fear I am more cat than wolf, sometimes.”

“Let's make a promise, then,” Vilkas said. “For Kodlak's sake, let's try harder to be better Companions to each other and the others.”

Mehra bit her lip and moved a shaking leg down to the lower step, thinking a quick prayer of sorts to Erich, her new catchall patron saint of sneak, that she wouldn't get caught accidentally eavesdropping.

Down one step, no sound.

“You're rather animated with Mehra,” Vilkas noted. “Do you have a thing for her, then?”

Down another step, and her heart was in her throat.

“She's pretty,” Aela admitted, “but, no. I've got nothing for her other than friendship.”

“Aye, she is pretty. Never seen a Dunmer quite like her before.”

Mehra's feet landed back on the basement floor silently and she breathed a sigh of relief. The feeling of friendship was mutual.

“You're going to be alright, then?” Aela asked.

“Yeah,” Vilkas replied. “It'll sting for a while, but I'm glad that I at least know–”

Mehra backed into the closed door behind her, a loud crash ringing throughout the hall.

“Morning!” she called.

“Good morning, Dragonborn,” Aela replied.

Swearing under her breath, Mehra jogged up the stairs, hoping that they were none-the-wiser. Vilkas pushed his chair back, its wooden legs scraping against the floor.

“You're ready to go, then?” he asked.

Mehra took in the dark circles under his eyes and pursed her lips. “Are you?”

“Aye,” he nodded. “I won't sleep well until Wuuthrad is back with us.”

With a heavy sigh – so many sighs, it seemed, these days – Aela grabbed the straps of a bag sitting next to her, stood, and handed it to Vilkas. “It's a long way to Driftshade Refuge,” she said. “No inns in between; you'll have to make camp. I'd recommend against staying in Dawnstar; don't know how many of them go there for supplies, so it's best to just avoid it.”

Mehra nodded. Aela always gave the right amount of intel. And while she wasn't partial to camping out in the cold, it was warm enough, this time of year. Smirking, she turned to Vilkas.

“Think I can handle the Northern Pass?” she drawled. “You know, with my weak and delicate nature?”

Vilkas' face fell. “I –”

“Relax,” Mehra chuckled, “I'm messing with you.”

He breathed a sigh of relief, then motioned toward the door. Together, they made their way out of Whiterun, turning onto the road that led to the far north of Skyrim.

They traveled in relative silence, each keeping their eyes on the mountains that loomed ahead. Unlike his brother, Vilkas wasn't much for talking. But what he lacked in the way of conversation, he made up for in the occasional thoughtful question.

Mehra shared what knowledge she had with him, admitting that she'd been locked away for two centuries, and had the practical life experience of someone his age.

Vilkas peered up at a hawk in the sky, then turned back toward her. “But that's a lot of time to think,” he noted.

“I thought a lot about my mistakes,” she said. Mehra turned her eyes down to the path and kicked at a rock. And two hundred years in jail hadn't taught her much other than the fact that she had to calm down and quit killing people all the time.

Mehra chuckled quietly to herself. Alright, that was a big step, given where she'd come from.

“Were you around for the Oblivion Crisis, then?” he asked.

“Kind of,” she replied. “I was stuck on Solstheim – there was a travel embargo – and Dagon didn't bother with the place.”  
  
“And afterward?”

“I went to the Imperial City to gawk at the mess,” Mehra admitted. “Being a Telvanni Master got me invited to one of the Chancellor's parties, and there, I met the Champion of Cyrodiil.”

Vilkas kept his eyes on the road. “And, what kind of warrior were they?”

“Nord, actually,” she replied. “Talented left-handed swordsman in light armor. Great horseman, too. He was extremely athletic and very nimble. Huge guy; would have towered over Skjor, even. I distinctly remember a very sociable and charming man.”

He was also impulsive and had a murderous streak, same as her. And apparently, he kept at least three lovers in every city in the province at a time. Partially screwed his way to the top at the Arcane University, a secret he readily divulged to her. It didn't seem so strange that he told her, given that his ultimate secret was that he was the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood.

But, no – she'd say nothing but compliments about Erich. She was still a sucker for him.

“Fellow's probably rolling in his grave,” Vilkas murmured, “with all that has happened to the Empire. So much good that man and Martin Septim did, undone in a few generations. So much good you did, too, undone.”

Mehra swallowed thickly. He was right.

“But that's why we're here,” she countered, “right now, on this road: to do some good.”

“Aye.”

Vilkas cracked a rare smile, the sadness he felt in his heart clearly resting below the surface of his expression.

“I – ” he sighed, “I'm not good at talking about these things, but I'm glad you are with me. And I am sorry for how I treated you in the beginning, not because you are who you are, but because it was simply the wrong thing to do.”

“We all do the wrong thing sometimes,” Mehra replied. “What gives you honor is admitting it. Joining the Companions was one of the best things that's happened to me. And that includes meeting you.”

“I appreciate that.”

They continued on in silence, focusing instead on making their way north. Within a few hours, the mountains came into view. Quietly, they made their camp in the shade of a cluster of reedy, budding trees, avoiding the massive, dripping pines nearby.

The sounds of a crackling campfire, crickets, and an occasional lonely owl filled the clearing as they ate their dinner in silence. After a quick night's rest, the process repeated with breakfast to the sound of early morning birds. Packing and leaving was quick and uneventful, and they continued on their way into the northern mountain pass.

With each passing hour, the terrain changed, until they found themselves surrounded by rocks and sparse brush. Stubborn patches of snow and ice clung to the path and the rocks ahead, resisting the coming of spring.

Hours later, they reached their target, just as the sun began to set. Mehra and Vilkas stopped to the side of a boulder on the path and crouched low.

Driftshade Refuge lay hidden among a nest of pines and boulders, backed up against the mountains nearby. The crumbling wall of the fortress that it used to be was covered in archers who stood stiffly, eyeing the path for intruders.

“How do you want to go in?” Mehra whispered.

“Hard and heavy,” Vilkas replied.

She snickered and nudged him with her arm. “Typical man. I've got the archers; you get the ground.”

“Aye.”

Clapping him on the shoulder, Mehra ran out from cover toward the archers up top. They immediately raised the alarm, but –

“Fus ro dah!”

The shout sent three of them tumbling backward off the high wall to land with a sickening crunch. As Vilkas ran past her with his sword raised, Mehra blasted the remaining two with a fireball, incinerating them on impact.

“Front clear!” Mehra called. She ran forward into the courtyard of the rundown fort, prepared another fireball, and threw it at the closest cluster of archers on the inner wall. Another shout cleared them out, just as Vilkas finished with those on the ground level.

A few Silver Hand lay dead; soon, more would follow.

Mehra stepped forward, eyeing the werewolf heads on pikes with a scowl. She caught Vilkas' eye across the courtyard and nodded. They'd repay Kodlak's death many times over.

She caught a bit of movement out of the corner of her eye and whirled around to see one of the archers she'd shouted off of the wall struggling to move. Shaking her head, Mehra stalked over to him – Orc, full of scars.

“Your taste in décor leaves much to be desired,” she drawled. “Heads on sticks are for lawless brigands.”

His head jerked at the sound of her voice, but the rest of him lay still. He had a broken neck, most likely. Sighing, Mehra drew her blade and stared down at him.

“You're just on the wrong side of history,” she said. Quickly, she put him out of his misery.

Vilkas made no comment. Instead, the pair split up to ensure that the outside of the keep truly was secure. Once they were certain, they met in front of the main door to head inside.

There was a pattern to everything, and the Silver Hand was no exception. The labyrinth that was Driftshade Refuge was full of torture victims, angry mercenaries, blood, and death, the same as all the other Silver Hand hideouts.

Predictably, the fragments of Wuuthrad lay haphazardly on a table in a heavily guarded room. Mehra picked up the fragments and placed them in her bag with reverence, hoping that Ysgramor wouldn't be too put off that his fabled axe lay next to artifacts of Sanguine, Azura, and Sheogorath.

With that, they left the last hideout of the Silver Hand behind and made their way back toward Whiterun in relative silence, speaking only when necessary. After another night of camping, they finally caught sight of the ancient, wooden city, just as the sun sank below the horizon.

Vilkas looked up from the road to peer at the city – the first time he lifted his head in earnest the entire way back.

“This revenge feels hollow,” he murmured.

Mehra nodded, her eyes following his to look at the large, wooden profile of Jorrvaskr against the setting sun.

“That's because it is hollow,” she replied.

There were just more dead bodies, even if they did have to get rid of the Silver Hand in order to have peace. Would the Silver Hand have left them alone had she and Aela not gone after them?

Doubtful. It may have bought Kodlak some time but –

“Had Aela and I not taken most of them out,” Mehra sighed, “and this is not meant to say anything bad about Kodlak – I think they would have attacked in force and killed more than just one of us.”

“Aye,” Vilkas nodded. “I know that my brother would disagree, of course.”

They turned at the fork, approaching the stable outside Whiterun.

“You balance each other well,” Mehra shrugged. “That's why you're both part of the Circle, and you both will contribute to the legacy of the Companions.”

“I hope so,” he mumbled. “Because I feel like a failure.”

“It won't be the last time. Allow yourself to be a person.”

Vilkas didn't have anything to say in reply to that. Perhaps, he disagreed and didn't find it polite to say so. Or, perhaps, he was thinking about what she said. In either case, they were silent on their way up to Jorrvaskr.

The somber mood inside the hall hung like a cloud, spoiling the Companions' enjoyment of dinner and rest. Mehra fell asleep in the bunkroom to the smell of preservation herbs down the hall.

When the morning dawned, the servants quietly served breakfast before leaving to prepare for Kodlak's funeral.

They committed Kodlak to his final resting place under a clear and bright sky, to the sound of children laughing and playing in the streets.

Jarl Balgruuf stood silently next to his steward, along with the priestess of Kynareth from the city temple, as the Companions recited the ancient rites that were meant to usher Kodlak into Sovngarde to be with the Harbingers who passed before.

Aela leaned over to light the flame to Kodlak's pyre on top of the Skyforge and Mehra closed her eyes.

He was going to Hircine, but if there was anything that could be done, he wouldn't stay there. She'd make sure of it.

One by one, the Companions and guests left, until only Eorlund remained with her.

“Do you have the fragments of Wuuthrad?” he asked.

Mehra blinked and shook herself out of her thoughts. “Yes, I do.”

Shrugging her pack off her back, she dug the fragments out of it, sparing a longing glance at the Fork of Horripilation.

Erich. She wanted to see him. He'd seek her out again, right?

Mehra shook the thought from her mind. It was selfish and shallow to consider gallivanting around with Erich when the Companions were in mourning.

Eorlund nodded as she handed the fragments to him. “There was one more fragment,” he said. “One that Kodlak kept close to his heart. I don't feel that I have any right to search his quarters for it. Would you find it for me, Companion?”

“Of course,” she said.

“Thank you.”

With that, she turned on her heel, jogged down the stairs to the training yard, and made her way into the ancient building. As Mehra took the stairs down to the living area and walked down the hallway to the Harbinger's quarters, she thought about the strange request.

Weren't Kodlak and Eorlund close friends?

She sucked in a breath and opened the door to Kodlak's quarters. A quick glance around told her that everything was tidy as it had been the day they had their conference.

Who was she to Kodlak? She was a newcomer. Surely she wasn't suited to this task.

Mehra pursed her lips and made her way into the private area of his quarters. She never had a place of her own long enough to keep personal items in a hidden location. Where would someone put something so special?

Her eyes landed on the nightstand next to the bed. Maybe someone would keep something there.

“I hope you'd trust me to do this,” Mehra murmured.

She reached forward and pulled on the knob to the top drawer of the nightstand. Inside lay a book, and next to it, a distinctive glowing metal shard. Mehra grabbed the fragment, her eyes drifting over to the book.

What kind of book was this?

Curious, she picked it up and unwound the leather cord that bound the cover shut. She opened it to the first page to see the slanted, jagged handwriting typical of an elderly person.

Oh. This was his journal.

Mehra quickly shut it, bound it, and placed it back in the nightstand. She had no business reading it. Turning on her heel, she left the room and jogged the rest of the way back up to the training yard, passing the junior members on her way.

She stopped at the top of the stairs to the forge and watched as Eorlund stared at the dying pyre.

“You have it?” he asked, not turning his eyes away from the fire.

Silently, Mehra approached him and handed the fragment to him.

“That's a good lass,” the smith sighed. “The rest of the Circle is meeting in the Underforge. You should join them.”

She nodded then turned to trudge back down the stairs. Opening the door to the Underforge, she heard voices echoing through the cavern.

She was late to something important again, it seemed.

Mehra shuffled forward and quietly took her place around the altar at the center of the cave. Farkas turned to give her a nod of greeting.

“The old man had one wish before he died,” Vilkas frowned. “And he didn't get it. It's as simple as that.”

True enough. But there had to be a way to save his soul.

“Being moon-born isn't so much of a curse as you might think,” Aela sighed.

“Does that matter?” Mehra interjected. “I think we all know that he wanted to go to Sovngarde, not Hircine's hunting grounds.”

“You're right,” Aela nodded. “And we should respect that. And I do. I didn't mean to make it sound otherwise. I'm sorry.”

Farkas put a placating hand on her shoulder. With a sad sigh, Aela put her hand on top of his.

“Kodlak used to speak of a way that the soul could be cleansed,” Vilkas said. “Even in death. You know the stories of Ysgramor's tomb.”

If it were as simple as going into an ancient crypt, then she'd do it. Talking to Hircine directly could have disastrous results.

“I'm going,” Mehra said. “Who's going with me?”

“It's not that simple,” Aela frowned. “Without Wuuthrad, you couldn't even get in there. And it has been in pieces for a thousand years.”

A pair of footsteps sounded behind them. Mehra turned to see Eorlund enter the Underforge.

“And dragons were once stories,” he said. “And elves once ruled Skyrim. Just because something is, doesn't mean it must be.”

“I agree with that,” Mehra nodded. “Saw it happen dozens of times. So, what are we going to change?”

Eorlund's face hardened. “I'm going to reforge the axe. And the flames of a hero will reforge it.”

“We do have all the pieces!” Farkas laughed. “Why not?”

“Damned good idea,” Vilkas agreed.

Aela cracked a rare smile. “Thank you, Eorlund. We'll await your word for when it is complete.”

“Take your time to mourn,” the smith sighed.

They went their separate ways, with Mehra promising that she wouldn't stray within a few miles of the city before it was even asked of her.

She couldn't leave, not when they needed her to help them cleanse Kodlak's spirit.

Keeping her duties in mind, Mehra trudged through the grass outside the city of Whiterun, approaching a smooth, flat boulder that jutted out from the grass. She stopped in front and scrambled up the side to sit and think.

What was this process that could heal Kodlak? Why hadn't Vilkas mentioned it before?

Perhaps, he didn't dare hope that they'd have all the fragments of Wuuthrad. Perhaps, it was assumed that the blade couldn't be reforged.

Mehra sighed and lay back against the stone. Whatever the case, she'd be there to help. She'd been to the heart of Red Mountain itself to kill Dagoth Ur, and by going with them to Ysgramor's tomb, there was no way they'd fail.

It simply wasn't an option.

Closing her eyes, Mehra relaxed as much as possible.

The sound of a lute drifted to her ears, and she didn't have to look up to know who it was. She'd been expecting Erich. She hadn't seen him in a while, after all, and he could never quite leave her alone. Mehra supposed that were she in his position, she would do likewise.

Opening her eyes, she saw that it indeed was Erich. He stood next to the rock, swaying and playing one of the most intricate melodies she'd ever heard.

“Don't remember you knowing how to play a lute,” she frowned. And she certainly hadn't taught him any useless spells of how to summon one. Mehra sat up and shook her head. Still, his company was appreciated.

Erich tossed the instrument aside, and it evaporated on impact with the ground. The spell was strange, but she noticed with a start that he dressed up as a human today. Maybe he intended to blend in with mortals.

Her silly side hoped that he did it for her.

“But I was good with my fingers,” he chuckled.

“That I do remember,” Mehra agreed. She couldn't forget that one.

Smirking, he jogged over to her and leaped up onto the boulder in a single bound. For a man so large, his agility always amazed her.

Erich sat down next to Mehra, bringing the scent of flowers with him. Glancing over, she saw dozens of tiny flowers of all sorts woven and braided into his hair, and a crown of yellow orchids resting on top of his head.

“Celebrating spring?” she asked, raising a brow at the new look.

“I am!” he laughed. “The kids did it. I've got a hair crew of about twelve or so who take turns doing it during story time.”

Mehra furrowed her brows. “I guess that makes sense that there'd be kids there,” she mumbled.

Insane kids. She hadn't thought of it before, but of course it happened.

“Some of them think I'm their father,” he shrugged. “Or their older brother, or some variant on that. I let them do it. In fact, I encourage it. Is that something you'd think is wrong?”

Mehra pursed her lips and lay back against the rock to stare up at the sky. Even before he became a daedra, Erich had difficulty with telling the difference between right and wrong, in certain circumstances. If there was a possible good that could come out of it – especially for himself – then he was likely to go with that decision, even if it was technically 'wrong'.

She was like that, too. It was part of why she broke it off with him so many years ago. And it was one of the biggest mistakes of her life. It absolutely broke her.

And Azura – maybe Akatosh, too – took those broken pieces and made something spectacular of them.

“Do you love them?” Mehra asked.

Erich lay back against the stone and closed his eyes. “I do.”

“Then maybe it isn't wrong,” she said.

“I feed their delusions.”

Mehra sighed, nodding in agreement. “But,” she countered, “maybe the world they live in – the one where they have a dad or a brother or an uncle –”

His hand crept across the space between them to hold hers.

“Maybe that world is better than what it would be otherwise,” Mehra said. “Maybe the real world is unimaginably sad and scary.”

“You don't mind it, then?” he asked.

Mehra abruptly let go of his hand and slapped him on the arm. “Why the hell do you need my approval anyway?”

“Damn good question!” Erich laughed, scooted toward her, and rolled onto his side to get a better look at her. When he was like this, she could almost forget that things weren't the same anymore.

“The day I met you,” he admitted, “you were so beautiful that I could barely think straight.”

“Oh?”

“That was when you were really tough and angry looking.” Erich chuckled. “Almost said a few things out loud, looking at you.”

She rolled her eyes and laughed along with him. “Like what?” she snorted. “Couldn't have been that bad.”

Erich leaned over, bringing his face close to hers. He stared into her eyes, looking so normal that she forgot herself.

“Fuck me up,” he whispered. “Please, please, fuck me up.”

Her face heated up. When they first met, she was so struck by his handsomeness; it didn't take long before he was the subject of her desires. And even now, Mehra couldn't help but think of it as she stared into his eyes – as she leaned in against her better judgment to brush her lips against his.

His breath hitched at the fleeting contact. Still, Erich lay completely still and stared into her eyes in fear. Foolishly, Mehra leaned in again in an attempt to kiss the look away from his face.

With the soft press of his lips against hers in return, the dam broke on their restraint.

The lust they never acted on consumed them after a long and lonely two hundred years. Mehra melted against him as he drew her into his arms. With each second they kissed, the memory of the last man she kissed – Sanguine; not really a man – dimmed in her mind.

And although Sanguine was fun, she wanted, needed, to fill herself with Erich as much as possible to ease the sting of regret for all the things she said and did to hurt him.

Her hands wove into his hair, fingers tangling against knots and braids filled with flowers and ribbons. His gasp against her mouth sent her heart racing.

Erich sat up, pulling her with him. “We shouldn't,” he breathed. His hands snaked under the hem of her shirt.

“We shouldn't,” she agreed. Still, she swung her legs over him to straddle his lap.

Too far. Too fast.

He grasped her thighs, punctuating every kiss with a quietly whispered, “no”.

They–

They had to stop.

Mehra gave him one, final kiss before pulling away and standing. Panting, she looked down to meet his eyes and saw that they were those of a daedra once again. From those brief seconds of passion, his control – his mind – slipped.

Her past self would have reveled in the fact that she did that to a god. Now, she took no pleasure in it; she wanted –

“I'm sorry,” she murmured. “It's my fault.”

Mehra didn't know what she wanted. A do-over was impossible.

“Takes two to do it,” he grumbled, slowly standing.

Erich hopped off the rock and extended a clawed hand to help her. Swallowing a sudden wave of fear, Mehra took his hand. He gripped her gently, his other arm wrapping around her thighs to lift her and allow her to slide to the ground.

She didn't need help in the least, but the sentiment was appreciated, nonetheless.

“Maybe some time,” Erich mumbled, “sometime when I feel like maybe – maybe my mind is thoroughly, completely in mania, we can try, um – something. Whatever that ends up being.”

Oh?

If it was anything like Sanguine, she'd be in for a fun time. With Erich, though, and his incredible size, she supposed it would be quite different. She never had a Nord before.

But they had to ensure that it was safe, first.

“You'll have to let me know when that is,” she replied. “I'm not committed.”

She hadn't been for her entire life; Erich was the closest she got, and even then, they never had a conversation about their relationship at the time.

“You're my favorite mortal, you know,” Erich said. “Absolute favorite. I love you so much I could just squeeze the life right out of you.”

The L-word. That was one hell of a thing to hear from Erich – from Sheogorath.

She cleared her throat. “That's an odd way to express it.”

Erich shook his head and sighed. “You don't want to know what's really in my mind,” he said.

Mehra took a step toward Whiterun, both hoping and fearing that he'd follow her.

“You're uh,” he mumbled, “you're not going to ask?”

She turned toward him and furrowed her brow. “I want to know, but I don't, if that makes any sense.”

He nodded, giving her a sly smile that made her want to ask him. Shaking her head, Mehra wrapped her arm around his waist – didn't reach very high on him – and leaned into his side.

“I'm sure that I'll ask for the graphic details later,” she shrugged. “After all, I'm masochistic and love the feeling of being lonely and horny at night.”

Erich burst out in laughter. “You have a whole city of mortals up there!” he cried. “What about the werewolf twins? Both at the same time, maybe?”

“Erich, no!”

He doubled over as his laugh broke out into a cackle.

“They're babies!” Mehra gasped. “I cannot believe you just said that. And how do you even know them?”

“I can see them all from a glance up there,” Erich replied. “I know their names and their relationships. They're like seashells on a beach – many in number, but each one so unique.”

Mehra peered up at Whiterun and shook her head. “City guard is probably disappointed they didn't get an eye-full of us.”

“If they're so sad,” Erich laughed, “I can walk down the street completely naked. Problem solved.”

“I'm not going to dare you on that because I know you'll do it.” she replied. Though part of her wanted to have a peek – just a little one – because she cheated herself out of seeing him undressed, among other things, years ago.

Together, they walked toward the city. Maybe he did want to visit with her for more than his usual brief stop.

“By the way, why would you bless the mortals with your divine nudity?” Mehra teased.

“Good question,” he mused. “They're lucky enough to see me in disguise.”

She turned to him and gave him a sad smile. “They really are,” she admitted. “Myself included.”

“Oh, you're being silly, now,” Erich grumbled. He blinked and his eyes were those of a human once again.

“Well,” Mehra sighed, “I like you a lot, alright?”

“Alright. I like you too. A lot.”

He wrapped his arm around her shoulder as they walked toward the city.

“I feel a bit guilty,” Mehra murmured, “we had a funeral for the Harbinger of the Companions but maybe an hour or so ago, and here I am cracking jokes and messing around.”

“Why?” Erich chuckled. “Did he not like having fun?”

She sighed and looked down at the ground. Mehra remembered Kodlak's smile – wrinkled and old behind a near-white beard; a smile that always reached his eyes.

“Kodlak smiled often,” she murmured. “More than you'd think someone with such a title would. I've never seen people so sad before. It's upsetting.”

Erich squeezed her in a quick hug. “Ever been to a funeral before?” he asked.

“This was my first one today,” she replied. “Made it through without crying and that was damn tough. I expected it to be sad, but–”

“You're never ready for that kind of stuff,” Erich said.

“Yes, exactly.”

She peered up at the city, toward Jorrvaskr where Kodlak's pyre lay. Surely, it was down to embers by now; the Skyforge was so hot that she couldn't imagine it taking long.

“There's no such thing as a great funeral,” Erich shrugged. “They're all uncomfortable and awkward. Martin – Martin was given a royal sendoff. Would have embarrassed the hell out of the guy. He wasn't like that. Regal, of his own right, but not into ceremony or excess.”

Mehra leaned into his side as they walked past the stable that lay at the bottom of the hill on which the city resided. She hoped – desperately hoped – that Erich was able to finally find peace over Martin's decision to die in order to save everyone.

But she had no idea how to even begin asking him. She wasn't good at these things. She was getting better, yes, but she had a long way to go.

“Kodlak was the same way,” she replied. “We gave him the traditional ceremony of the Companions. It was a closed funeral; just the Companions, Temple, and Jarl came. But the whole city is in mourning – lots of people in black, today.”

“I can feel their sorrow,” Erich murmured.

She found herself tangling her hand in his hair as they trudged up the hill toward the city. His connection with the world – even though she knew who he was – always astounded her.

“Does that ever bother you?” she asked. “Knowing so much about so many things.”

Erich sighed and looked down at the ground. “It burdens me, sometimes,” he admitted. “Attachment makes it worse – always worse.”

Mehra didn't know what to say to that. He chose to be with her, and chose to pursue some sort of relationship – some form of attachment – with her, despite the fact that doing so would cause him distress.

But wasn't that what relationships – platonic and otherwise – were all about?

At the very least, Erich would understand why she went back to Neloth after he berated her, and why she created a staff for him. She was starting to get the hang of it, after all; relationships of any kind were either worth the discomfort, or they were not. But one had to put in the effort in order to find out.

“Don't worry about it,” Erich chuckled. “One step at a time. Those steps add up.”

“They do,” she replied.

They passed through the gate of the city, the guards greeting her with a sympathetic look. While they walked up the bustling street of Whiterun, Mehra couldn't help but notice the amount of stares Erich received, regardless of his mortal appearance.

Mehra wasn't used to making a scene anymore. Yes, her dragon armor attracted a lot of attention, but not nearly as much as she did with Erich on her arm.

It shouldn't have surprised her; they made quite a pair when they traveled around Cyrodiil some time ago. While it had been her way to threaten to get what she wanted, in contrast, Erich preferred to use his looks to his advantage: a bit of a roguish smile, leaning in a certain way – seducing shopkeepers into the best deals or buttering up certain guards to get them to do what he wanted. If they weren't inclined for attraction toward him, he became instant friends instead. People fell all over themselves to do things for him, long before he became a Daedra, and long before he became a Champion.

A loud whistle sounded off to the side, followed by a loud, “Hey blondie! Gorgeous ass!” from one of the women washing clothing in the stream that ran through the city.

Erich cleared his throat and tugged on Mehra's arm, ushering them quickly through the street.

“Don't get that where you're from anymore?” she asked.

“Nah,” Erich replied. “Not ever anymore. You don't catcall a king, and certainly not a god. It's, uh – it's – I don't mind, really.”

“Well, you're not technically blond, but you do have the ass of a champion,” Mehra snickered. “Literally.”

He laughed and nodded in agreement.

They climbed the stairs up to the wealthy district and stopped at the top.

“Do you want to meet the Companions?” Mehra asked, unsure if he'd even care about such things.

“In a few minutes, sure,” Erich replied. “I want to do something first. Go on ahead, though.”

She nodded and furrowed her brow. The last thing she wanted was to bring him into the city so he could cause trouble, but there wasn't much she could do about that. She'd have to trust that his intentions weren't harmful.

Trusting Sheogorath's intentions. Perhaps she was losing it.

Shaking her head, Mehra gave him a quick hug then turned to see Farkas and Vilkas standing at the top of the stairs in front of Jorrvaskr. She smiled at them as she jogged up the stairs. Reaching the top, Mehra steeled herself for the inevitable questions.

Farkas regarded her with a strange look, then turned his eyes back to Erich.

“So,” he mumbled, “Is that – is that your guy or something?”

Mehra cast a glance back to Erich and watched as he knelt down to talk to a pair of children. He looked like a beautiful prince of the forest, with those flowers woven throughout his hair.

The children were enthralled by him, and even the adults nearby slowed down to take a look. It was hard not to.

“No,” Mehra replied. “Not like that.”

He tilted his head to the side and peered at Erich. “Well, someone's got you grinning, lately. Ain't him?”

No, the three thousand year old wizard was responsible for that, and he did a damn fine job of it. In Erich's current state, she'd be lucky to walk away from a night with him with a limp.

“Shut it, bonehead!” Vilkas hissed. “That's dirty talk. What's the matter with you?”

Farkas turned to his brother and rolled his eyes. “Didn't know we were a court,” he sneered.

“It's called decorum,” Vilkas scowled. “And you wonder why you're single.”

“There's nothing wrong with me!” Farkas argued.

Vilkas peered past him to look at Erich and the growing crowd of children circled around him underneath the dead tree in the center of the courtyard.

“Who's the pretty boy?” he asked.

Farkas turned to him and narrowed his eyes. “I was trying to figure that out before you scolded me, nanny.”

Mehra fought the urge to laugh. “That's Erich. I've known him for a while. He's just visiting with me. I suppose I can wait in the training yard for him to finish – whatever he's doing. Looks like story time, to be honest.”

She turned on her heel, knowing that Erich heard her. The twins lingered for a moment, watching the newcomer. Quickly, Vilkas turned and jogged to catch up with her.

“He's quite tall,” he called. “Taller than Skjor was, even. Nice light armor he's got there. Can't help but notice he wears his sword left-handed.”

Mehra continued walking and pursed her lips. She needed to quit opening her trap to people about her past life.

Vilkas caught up to her, grabbing her forearm to make her stop. Sighing, Mehra turned to face him.

“You said that you've known this man for a while, then?” he asked, his steely eyes narrowed. Vilkas saw right through her.

“I have,” she admitted.

He shook his head. “Incredible.”

“Please Vilkas,” Mehra murmured. “Please keep it quiet.”

“Why?” he grumbled. “The world needs help! The people need help. And you may even need–”

“He's not right in the head anymore,” she pleaded. “Please, let him be retired in peace. He lost so much. I'm going to do everything in my power to do what I can, so please, trust me. His mind just isn't there, Vilkas. Once you talk to him, you'll understand.”

Erich did deserve retirement from heroing. He did terrible things, yes, but he loved and lost Lucien and Martin both – especially Martin. A long time ago, he told her that meeting her was the first time he'd been happy since Martin died. She didn't believe it when she first heard it – pretty lies that men always told, she figured –, but now, she most certainly did.

Vilkas turned to look back toward the city and sighed. “Alright, Shield-Sister,” he replied. “Alright. And I am sorry for insisting. Seems that I must apologize much more, lately.”

“You're fine,” she shrugged. “Just try to be careful with him, alright?”

His shoulders slumped. “I suppose I ought to retrieve my brother before he gets any more ideas. He's already leaving a puddle of drool looking at the guy.”

Mehra cleared her throat and stared up at the sky. “Yeah, that might be a good idea. Could be dangerous.”

Vilkas sighed in frustration, then trudged off to retrieve his brother. Shaking her head, Mehra walked over to the shaded awning that overlooked the training yard, pulled a chair out from one of the tables, and sat down. Her eyes slid shut to the sound of Eorlund at his forge and the gentle, spring breeze that drifted through the city.

As the minutes passed, inevitably, her worries came to the front of her mind.

There was so much to do. She owed it to Kodlak to do her best to ensure that his spirit was cleansed of lycanthropy. Then, there was the matter of the mysterious orb at the College, and the Thalmor who studied it night and day. Her House was in ruins and needed to rebuild.

And, over all of those things was the looming threat of Alduin and his growing strength. She had yet to find so much as a lead on an Elder Scroll. And though she appreciated Neloth's assistance, she worried that it wouldn't be enough. What if she didn't get it in time?

“Shh.”

Her eyes slid open to see Erich kneeling in front of her.

“You're thinking too much,” he murmured. “Shh.” He reached forward and grabbed her hands.

“Erich, I need –”

“It will come to you in time,” he replied. “But for now, shh. Be present here. Be present now.”

Erich blinked, the pupils of his eyes turning reptilian and otherworldly as he flashed a wicked smile. In the next second, the look was gone and his disguise returned. Mehra pursed her lips.

“I have a feeling that you know something I don't know,” she grumbled.

“I'll never tell,” he teased.

He helped her to her feet as she rolled her eyes. Of course, he wouldn't tell her exactly what he knew. And while Mehra usually liked a challenge, she wanted some reassurance that she wasn't about to mess everything up by waiting on this Elder Scroll.

Figuring she ought to take his advice, Mehra quieted the worries on her mind as best she could and allowed him to hook his arm with hers. She led him into Jorrvaskr – a sin against the Companions, she knew – and introduced him to them.

The group caroused and told tales of Kodlak and his virtue well into the dinner hour while Erich sat off to the side with a constantly refilling mug of ale and a lute. He played the most complex and resonating music she ever heard, each note perfectly timed and placed.

From across the hearth, Vilkas regarded Erich with a strange look. “Well, Erich Heartfire,” he said. “Do you have any tales of adventure?”

He looked up from his playing to look at Mehra. Quickly, she nodded in encouragement; maybe the Companions could grow, hearing about his adventures.

Erich tilted his head to the side in thought. “Yeah. Let me think of one.”

“That many adventures?” Farkas laughed. “I'm sure any one of them is bound to be good, then.”

Erich chuckled. “A lot of them are rude. I was a dirty boy, back in my adventuring days.”

“I don't mind a dirty story,” Farkas coughed.

Vilkas turned to level his brother with a glare, who rolled his eyes in response.

Erich slowly nodded to himself. “Ah,” he said. “I've got a good one for you. So, there was this Argonian whose friend got involved in some unsafe magical practices. He created an amulet where he could explore his dreams at will.”

“It always starts out with a wizard causing trouble,” Aela chuckled. “No offense, Mehra.”

Mehra snorted. “Well, it's usually true.”

“The guy forgot the astral posies,” Erich sighed. “They're essential to a safe and orderly dreamwalk. So he ended up stuck in a nightmare. And, ah – the amulet? Not enough prongs.”

A few of the Companions looked at Mehra in concern, and she shrugged in reply. Yes, she was well aware of his 'issues', if they could be called such a thing.

After all, Erich was not only immortal, but he was a god with immeasurable powers. In fact, nobody really knew which Daedric Prince was the most powerful, only that Sheogorath was guessed to be one of the stronger ones.

“Um,” Farkas mumbled, “that sure is – interesting.”

“I didn't know about it at the time,” Erich nodded. “And looking back on the whole thing, I'm lucky that I made out alright without onion leaves. Just the leaves; bulbs are bad luck.”

A silence fell over the table and Erich shrugged. “Anyway, the guy's name was Henantier, from what I remember. His friend had me put on his Dreamwalker amulet and sleep in order to save the guy from himself. He totally lost his mind in the process and I cobbled it back together through a bunch of tests.”

The silence continued, until Vilkas looked up from his pint. He quickly glanced over at Mehra with pursed lips.

She was right about Erich's mental state, and Vilkas heard enough to confirm it for himself.

“Sounds like quite an adventure,” he said. “Have you done any beast slaying?”  
  
Erich's face fell and Mehra cleared her throat.

This was going to be about that unicorn, wasn't it?

She watched as he put his head in his hands and took a deep breath.

“I, uh,” he murmured, “I was sent to hunt a very specific animal. When I met him and found out he was tame – when he rested his chin on my shoulder and then knelt down in front of me to invite me for a ride – I nearly didn't do it.”

“It's not a hunt if the animal is tame,” Njada drawled.

Erich nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “And I totally agree with that. But if Hircine tells you to kill a unicorn, you do it. I mean, Hircine is generally an alright guy – and he certainly isn't the strongest one of the Princes– but he's got this thing about order and fairness and especially keeping one's word. Collects spring flowers for his rack, by the way – mostly azaleas.”

Vilkas regarded him with a thoughtful look, his arms crossed. Pursing his lips, he looked down at the table, then back up to Erich.

“I've a thought,” Vilkas said. “And maybe you know something about these things; you seem deceptively knowledgeable.”

“Got a question?” Erich smiled. “About Hircine, maybe? I can do my best; I'll admit that I haven't spoken to the fellow in quite a while. I know more about the likes of Sanguine and Sheogorath, to be honest. And Mehra's your true Tribunal expert.”

“I understand,” Vilkas replied. “Or, I believe I do. Regardless, how do you think one could theoretically be posthumously cured of lycanthropy? And do you think that this would infuriate Hircine?”

Mehra sucked in a breath. She didn't want to get Erich involved in this; Daedra Lords had enough politics, intrigue, and fighting among themselves without mortals meddling in the whole thing.

But Vilkas certainly was on to something by asking him. She couldn't begrudge him for trying.

“Depends on how one does it,” Erich shrugged. “If it were mortals slaying said werewolf spirit in combat, then I suppose it might delight Hircine. Hunt, combat, and cycle are important to him. Kind of boring, but I suppose it could be exciting at times. Bloodlust is fascinating, at least. And I can understand a bond to the wilderness; it's quite inspiring.”

Aela looked up from her tankard of ale to level Erich with a serious look.

“Erich,” she said, “I assume you're a wizard of some sort? Neither you nor Mehra have explained how you know each other.”

He gave her a wry smile. “I'm not the best at wizardry,” he replied. “But we do go a ways back, to the end of the Third Era. I'm glad to see her back on Tamriel. What I can say is that I have nothing but good intentions toward you – or, what you'd consider good, at any rate.”

“Any friend of Mehra's is a friend of ours,” Aela declared. “Just curious about it. You seem knowledgeable.”

“Read books,” he smiled. “Read lots of books. Especially forbidden ones. Especially forbidden ones with dark auras. You'll learn some of the most fascinating swear words from those. Red book might help you in bed, too. Watch out for the ocean ones, though.”

Ria shifted in her seat and leaned forward on her elbows. “Any easy-to-find recommendations?” she asked.

“History,” Erich shrugged. “Read one of each account. If it has been banned and burned at one point, then it's all the better. But don't put too much stock into any of them, because everyone's a liar.”

“Damned right on that one,” Vilkas agreed. “I'm glad that this place is full of people I can trust.”

Erich lifted his pint, his amber eyes meeting Mehra's from across the table. His stare was so serious that it unnerved her, and it certainly wasn't from the fact that he was who he was:

When Erich was serious about something – a rare occurrence – he was unflinchingly, dead serious.

“A toast, then,” he announced, his eyes not leaving hers. “To those we trust.”

Oh, Erich.

She didn't do anything to deserve such an honor.

Mehra raised her pint and prepared to return the toast with the rest of the Companions.

“And I am sorry I lied to you.”

Erich's voice reverberated loudly in her mind, making her wince and forget to say something. His mouth hadn't moved when she heard it, and judging by the complete lack of a reaction from the Companions, she was the only one who heard it.

“Later,” she murmured, “now's not the time to talk about it.” Mehra tipped her mug against her lips and downed the mellow ale.

“Later, I know,” the astral voice agreed.

The toast set off the night's festivities as they sat around the hearth and continued to tell stories of Kodlak. All the while, Erich sat off to the side and played his lute.

Later, as the evening began to wind down, Mehra looked over her mug of ale to shake her head at the Companions seated around the great table in the hall.

They had a private concert from Sheogorath, the inventor of music itself. And yet, none of them had an inkling of it.

From what Mehra knew, that was how he worked; he was secretive, and much preferred to appear as a mortal – a gentleman with a cane, most times – to lull the mortals into a false sense of security.

The tone of his music shifted to something soft and slow that blended perfectly with the crickets chirping outside. One by one, each Companion yawned, pushed their chair back, and thanked Erich for playing for them before excusing themselves to bed. It took all of five minutes, with Aela the last one to fall under his spell.

While Mehra was loathed to admit it, she felt his lullaby stirring the urge to sleep deep within her. She watched as Aela sleepily shuffled down the stairs to the basement. As the door closed behind the final Companion, Erich's soothing melody stopped immediately.

Drowsy, Mehra stood from her chair and padded over to him. Erich stood as she stopped in front of him, looking down at her with a smirk as he dropped his mortal disguise.

His eyes glowed in the light of the fire, the otherworldly gaze captivating her and drawing her in.

“That's an interesting way to get a girl alone,” she murmured. Mehra wrapped her arms up around his neck, her hands barely reaching their goal.

The lute fell to the floor and vanished in a puff of golden magic as his hands found her hips. He drew closer to her, capturing her lips roughly, his eyes boring into hers.

He – they –

God – the devil; she didn't know anymore – was kissing her.

Terrified, she backed away from his claws, fangs, and eerie eyes.

“Not tonight, then?” Erich murmured.

“Tonight?” she repeated, unsure of what he meant.

“Why do you think I was playing music for so many hours?” he chuckled. “Doesn't change that you're terrified.”

Mehra swallowed and glanced at his eyes for a brief second before hastily looking away.

“Is it even possible?” she whispered.

“Yeah.”

Mehra glanced up at him and huffed. “No explanation?”

“I may have had an encounter-of-sorts with my predecessor,” he shrugged. “Let's just put the idea on the shelf for now and get you to bed, alright?”

Mehra nodded and Erich extended his arm to her.

“May I walk you home, Lady?” he asked.

She sighed in frustration at her continual failure to return his dependability and took his arm in hers. Together, they climbed the short set of stairs that led to the front door of Jorrvaskr and slipped outside into the dark streets of Whiterun.

As they passed through the courtyard in front of Jorrvaskr, Eorlund's hammering slowed. Mehra peered over her shoulder to see the smith watching them from a distance. She gave him a lazy wave as the haze of alcohol and drowsiness from Erich's lullaby spread through her mind. Eorlund – a man of few words, and even fewer gestures – raised a quick hand and gave her a nod in return.

Mehra turned back to the quiet street, her steps faltering when Erich leaned down to plant a hasty kiss on her cheek.

The guards flanking the archway that led down into the market area gave her a nod as she approached with the strange man on her arm.

“Evening, Companion,” one said. “I am very sorry for your loss. Sovngarde is graced to have Kodlak in their presence.”

She leaned heavily into Erich's side. Kodlak wasn't in Sovngarde; he was with Hircine, against his will. Still, Mehra appreciated the sentiment for what it was.

“Thank you,” she murmured, hoping that her voice hadn't slurred too terribly.

“Have a good evening,” he nodded.

“And you as well.”

Erich led her down the stairs toward the market district, glancing over his shoulder and smirking. In the next second, his hand quickly cast a spell with a pale, green light – one she identified as an amplifying spell.

He meant to eavesdrop on someone, and was forcing her to be complicit in it. Mehra opened her mouth to protest –

“Lucky man,” one of the guards above said. “Such a beautiful warrior woman.”

Her mouth closed and she pursed her lips as Erich snickered. Perhaps it was good that when he was a mortal, most of his spells were accidental castings. As it was, he would have been a total shit with his arcane abilities, much in the same way that she had been.

“Very much so. Could probably crush a man with her thighs, that one. And have you ever seen such a beautiful man before?” the other guard asked.

“I have not. Beautiful and strong. Princely, even. The kind of man I imagine the heroes were.”

"Me neither,” he admitted. “I'm not attracted to other men but –”

“Everyone's got their 'one or two' they might try,” the other chuckled.

“Aye,” he replied. “That they do. Guess that's one of them, for me. Lucky couple, then?”

“I'll agree to that. Shame about Kodlak.”

The other guard sighed deeply. “Were I on duty at the time of the attack, I'd never forgive myself for letting those brigands in. Can't imagine the guilt everyone feels over the whole thing – Companions included.”

Scowling, Mehra cast a muffle spell to counter Erich's spell.

“Rude,” she hissed. “I don't want to be eavesdropping, Erich.”

Erich unhooked their arms and wrapped his arm around her waist to give her a gentle squeeze. “But you waited a while to cast that spell,” he countered. “Everyone likes to hear nice things about themselves.”

They shuffled through the empty market and Mehra pursed her lips. Damn if he wasn't right about that one.

“Yes,” she admitted, “but that doesn't mean that I need to be casting spells in order to hear them.”

Erich shrugged as they approached Breezehome. “I can and I will.”

“Oh, I've heard that one dozens of times,” Mehra drawled.

They stopped in front of the house and Erich turned to her with a smirk.

“And I will have you one day,” he murmured, leaning over to capture her mouth in a passionate kiss.

He parted from her as suddenly as he kissed her, leaving with a lingering touch to her hand and a longing gaze.

“I can, and I will.”

Mehra knew that he would, and when it happened, she knew that she'd foolishly let him.

 


	27. Chapter 27

A/n: This chapter ended up huge, so I've divided it into two parts.

LORE NOTE:

If you're curious where I've gotten some of my ideas for creation – the identities of Sithis and Padomay, and the origins of the Daedra – take a look at the in-game books “The Anuad Paraphrased” and, to a looser extent, “The Monomyth”. You can easily look them up on UESP (Unofficial Elder Scrolls Pages). Reading those isn't crucial to the story, but I figured I'd mention them in case any of you wanted additional material, or if there are lore geeks out there wondering how I arrived at the conclusions I did. I'm certainly not claiming that my take on it is canon, as there are so many creation myths in the lore. But, I figured that since we are examining Sheogorath-Champion in detail, that his origins should be accounted for in however I can best reconcile them.

As a bonus: You may want to also look up “Spirit of the Daedra”. It has appeared in many of the games.

    

* * *

    
    _"A realm needs a strong backbone! Well, unless the support really IS a backbone...ever been to Malacath's realm? Nasty stuff." - Sheogorath  
  
_

* * *

 

He once read a forbidden book.

The book listed blasphemies innumerable – things that he didn't repeat but once in a while. He whispered them in Sanguine's ear when his lover couldn't escape him, reveling in how he cringed, moaned, and tried to move away when he heard them. He said a mild one to Vivec when the three of they lay together – sexual healing, Sanguine as called it – and reveled in the false-god's screams.

Some of the ones he learned were blasphemous enough to make the fabric of existence tremble. And, in that book of blasphemies, he read a nugget of truth.

It seemed that Sithis – Padomay – had grand plans for Erich when he first made contact with the Dark Brotherhood. Plans, in fact, that went far beyond becoming Listener.

Oh, what a fool he'd been: Sheogorath was the Sithis-shaped hole in the world.

He gained so much from the whole ordeal; prior to finding the Shivering Isles, he'd been dealing with too much, and the pressure that the public put on him was causing him to fray at the seams. Really, this was such a blessing. Sithis must have known it.

After Martin died while banishing Mehrunes Dagon back to Oblivion, there was a group of mortals who saw something in Erich that simply wasn't there:

They wanted to crown him Emperor.

It didn't matter to them that he was a peasant from a long line of peasants, his family name a direct reference to the month of harvest. The group of people who wanted to make him their emperor saw a hero and were too blinded by his looks and airs – his self-taught Imperial accent – to see it.

Sithis saved him from the inevitable cult that was about to form from it. The mortals were wrong to entirely focus on the Nine; Sithis was always there, working in the background.

How beautiful and touching that Sithis – Padomay – adopted him with his own blood. Had he not wanted it, the ritual he completed in order to become Sheogorath would have failed.

Erich didn't deserve the honor – damned self-serving wretch that he was.

He shook his head and peered back at Mehra's tiny home. She didn't need to know any of it; it was the business of the Seventeen, and certainly not the business of the mortals.

“Thank you, dread Father,” he murmured, staring up at the void between the stars. “Your will is an unknowable mystery, even now.”

The Nine and the Seventeen Daedric Princes were the actors on the stage, true, but Sithis clearly had a hand in painting the landscape.

He trudged away from the house, his mind turning toward Alduin. Could the destruction of the world be part of Sithis' plan? Or, conversely, was saving it part of the plan?

Sheogorath supposed he'd find out soon enough. But, becoming unmade along with creation wasn't appealing. If he had to punish the dragon with a meteor and take out half of Mundus with him, so be it. And if he had to persuade the other sixteen to join with him, then he would.

 But, Mehra deserved a chance at it first. She was a talented killer, and certainly less destructive than Sheogorath and his assorted kin.

His eyes followed the road, turning toward the illuminated Skyforge next to the city wall. The sound of a hammer striking steel reverberated throughout the courtyard below as Eorlund Gray-Mane – greatest smith in all of Skyrim – worked at the coveted forge.

Curious and with nothing better to do, Erich made his way toward the forge, passing through the courtyard of the wealthy, up the stairs to Jorrvaskr, and skirting around the side of the ancient building. The smith afforded him a brief glance when he came into view, then turned back toward his work.

Sheogorath knew from a glance that this man was an artisan as well as a smith; this piece had his undivided, obsessive attention. Quickly, he climbed the stairs to get a better look.

“Lass kicked you of the house for the night, boy?” Eorlund asked, not moving his gaze from his work.

Erich chuckled and shook his head. “It's not like that,” he said. “At least, not anymore. We're still very close. It was the right thing to do and I'm fine with it.”

The smith arched a brow, clearly not believing him.

A small part of Erich didn't believe that he was fine with it, either. But, what was there to do? The time wasn't right. He hoped that soon, the right moment would present itself. Really, if he spent more time with her, he was certain he could persuade her.

If he didn't hurt her, he was certain he'd rock her world.

“And you ain't at the tavern?” the man continued. “A young stag like you?”

“No, sir.”

The old man shook his head. “Mind yourself around the forge, then,” he grumbled. “I've got steel to shape.”

“Aye.”

While the Companions drank and told stories of the late Kodlak Whitemane, this man hammered away at the forge, unaware of whom he was, and unaware of whom the Companions assumed he was.

He much preferred to be a mystery to the mortals. Erich supposed he'd excuse Mehra's big mouth on account that she had to explain how they were so familiar with each other when the Companions had been her first friends since she arrived back on Tamriel.

“What's your name then, son?” the smith asked.

“Erich,” he replied.

“Omen name?”

Besides insanity? He was what lay on the other side of the mirror. He was that strangely violent, intense, and obtrusive thought that every mortal had at random. He was the whisper of shadows in the dark. He was the song on the wind, and the laughter of thunder in the hills.

He fought the urge to cackle. That wasn't what the mortal asked.

“Heartfire,” he chuckled. “As in the month, not anything about passions or heroes or true grit or anything like that. Got a cousin named 'Frostfall', too.”

Damn if the name hadn't been right, though. He was a damned stubborn cuss and wanted that 'saving the world from Mehrunes Dagon' thing to happen. By the gods – Akatosh and himself, really – it happened.

“My name's Eorlund Gray-Mane,” the smith said. “Gray-Mane's the clan name; very old name. Now, I suppose with a name like 'Heartfire', someone has some high expectations for you, lad.”

Erich nodded. “My Da did,” he replied. “Slapped me around when I made mistakes. He's been dead for some time, now.”

Eorlund scowled as he placed a piece of the axe into the fire. “Too many men doing that these days,” he grumbled. “A steady hand forges both steel and men.”

“I was a scrapper when I was a kid,” Erich shrugged.

“Who do you think taught you to hit people, young man?”

Da did, of course.

He sighed and stared up at the sky.

It took him way too long to connect those two particular things in his mind.

Shaking his head, Erich watched Eorlund mending two pieces of a shattered war axe together. The sight of the blade churned his stomach; he didn't like something about it, and couldn't quite place it.

Whatever it was, it was a holy relic of some sort. It wasn't necessarily directly from the Temple, nor did it even have to do with the Nine. The blade was simply contrary to his nature as one of the chaotic immortals.

“What is this axe?” Erich asked.

The smith paused in his work and pursed his lips. “She didn't tell you,” he said, his tone clearly observing rather than asking.

No, she did not. The thought soured his stomach more than the relic in front of him did.

Erich exhaled and forced the childish idea from his mind. Mehra didn't have to tell him everything that was going on, the same as he didn't have to tell her everything he was up to.

Eorlund regarded him with a cool look then returned to his work. “This is Wuuthrad,” he explained, “Ysgramor's fabled war axe. I presume she didn't tell you because its reforging is Companion business.”

“I understand, then,” he shrugged. “That was likely her reason. I don't intend to pry.”

Somewhat.

Sort of.

Alright, he was a damned snoop. Always had been. And he sure as hell wanted to pry, now.

“You've no accent,” the smith grumbled, “so I assume you're not from here. Wuuthrad is a relic to the Companions, and a treasure to all of Skyrim. This is a huge part of your heritage, foreigner or not.”

Ah. They intended to use this axe to cleanse Kodlak's spirit. Made sense.

“The pieces don't look very ornate,” he observed. “Seems like Ysgramor was a practical man.”

Though money was no object to Sheogorath, he understood the value that mortals put on certain substances and intricate work. It was why he had an illusion bound to his sword when he visited the mortal plane:

The blade he carried was so ornate and fine that it was sure to be a distraction.

He treasured it, of course; it was the first time in thousands of years that Bliss and the Crucible joined together, their respective smiths combining their talents to create a stunning sword of half madness ore, half amber, in honor of his ascension. And the smiths made it as ornate as they possibly could, as an act of praise. They showed their devotion in the language they spoke the best: smithing.

Sheogorath wore it proudly and it rarely left his side. And when the two halves of the city fought against each other and took it a wee bit too far, he reminded them of their kinship with it.

“I want to inspire you, if I may,” he said, watching as the smith furrowed his brow.

“Oh?”

“I've got a bit of a spell on my blade,” Erich admitted. “I wouldn't take kindly to people gawking more than they already do. So I conceal its appearance.”

“Mage, then?” Eorlund asked. “Wondered why your hair is whiter than mine, lad. I suppose you're old enough to be my grand-da?”

“Great-grand-da, even.”

He sighed and shook his head. “Let's see it, then.”

Wordlessly, Sheogorath drew the blade from its scabbard, allowing the illusion spell to fall away. The golden amber of the blade glimmered brightly in the moonlight, and as he handed it to the smith, the weapon's ornate madness hilt sparkled with the movement.

He watched as a frowning Eorlund inspected the sword, from the tip of the blade down to the tassels on the pommel – tassels made of hair from both Staada and Dylora; a silly, poetic sentiment he had toward his cherished generals that he added after the sword was presented to him.

“Where in Oblivion did you get this?” Eorlund scowled. “This is daedric.”

“Specifically?” Erich chuckled. “The Shivering Isles.”

“You traded your sanity for this blade?”

“Aye. After a fashion.”

The smith handed it back to him with a grunt. “Fool of a man, you are. If you weren't a friend of Mehra's, I'd tell you to get lost.”

Erich nodded quietly and sheathed the blade, allowing the spell to fall over it once again.

“Does it inspire you, at least?” he asked.

“Dark arts are a fool's errand,” Eorlund snapped. He turned back to his work and hammered at Wuuthrad with more force than necessary.

Sheogorath tilted his head to the side. “I'm strictly talking about the form of it,” he shrugged. “The process can't be replicated on Tamriel.”

“Of course it can't,” the smith drawled. “Were those tassels made of hair?”

“The hair of two brilliant and beautiful daedra women,” he confirmed. “They gave it willingly as a gift. The tassels are just tokens; I'm gentleman, after all.”

Eorlund shook his head. “I've never seen anything quite like it,” he admitted. “And there were quite a few daedric blades in circulation after the Oblivion Crisis. Of course, they're more rare now. Almost every Jarl is likely to have one laying around, so I've seen a few in my time. But that blade– never seen one like that before. And certainly not those materials. Design is masterful; daedric weapons usually are, unless they exist to punish the wielder.”

“It's made of madness ore and amber,” Erich offered.

“Madness ore?” Eorlund repeated. “I ain't touching that with my hammer. Couldn't be paid enough to. Skyforge Steel is excellent on its own, and if I have the rare occasion of using dragon, it's all the better. But–”

He frowned and continued his work.

“But?” Sheogorath repeated.

“I've a few ideas from it,” the smith admitted. “Might try a bit with the steel here. I'm a bit old to get into all-night creative nonsense.”

“What if I gave you something to give you energy?” he asked.

“No. Get lost.”

Erich held his hands up in defense and backed away from the old man. Mehra wouldn't appreciate if he messed with the guy, so he'd have to get his jollies messing with another mortal.

“I'll leave you to it then,” he said. “Thank you for letting me see Wuuthrad; it truly is a marvel.”

“Aye.”

With that, he turned and jogged down the stairs to the training yard behind Jorrvaskr. Erich sighed, trudged toward the city, and kicked at an errant pebble on the path.

He had a lot of hours to kill before Mehra was awake again, and he was already bored.

And a bored Sheogorath was a naughty Sheogorath.

Well, “naughty” was a relative thing, anyway.

His eyes drifted across the courtyard to a bench that faced inward. Shrugging, he jogged over to it and sat down with a plop.

After a minute of twiddling his thumbs and jiggling his legs, he wondered if he ought to call on Sanguine. But, if he did that, then it was likely that he'd miss Mehra altogether; calling on Sanguine always involved one hell of a party. He wished –

He wished he knew more people – immortal people of the daedric variety, that was.

Sheogorath stretched his legs out in front of him and tilted his head to the side at the muffled footsteps coming his way. There was someone behind him. Maybe, his night would get interesting.

Out of the corner of his eye, Erich saw a priestess approach him, a thoughtful look on her face. She stopped behind him and stood with her arms crossed. From the look she had, he knew that she'd ask him for something; likely, it was something to do with the Temple. Judging from her dress and amulet, she was of Kynareth.

She didn't know he was the devil, but surely, he made her hair stand on end.

“It's a shame, isn't it?” she murmured, looking up at the tree.

Erich nodded slowly. There was a sacred tree in the middle of the city.

Disgusting.

The woman pushed back her sleeves to rub the goosebumps on her forearms and he fought the urge to grin. There it was: Blessed horripliation.

She was a tall, thin woman, and her partially-wrinkled face seemed set in a perpetual frown. The bags and dark circles under her eyes showed her in a weakened state.

“Can't sleep, madam?” he asked.

The priestess shook her head. “The war and caring for the injured takes a lot of effort,” she admitted. “And some of the wounds I've seen – the pain these brave souls are in – makes it difficult to sleep at night. The Jarl is wise to not get involved in the war, but I fear he may be forced to eventually.”

Sheogorath nodded, disinterested in the whole thing, save the fact that Mehra made her home within the city.

“The death of the sacred Gildergreen is a concern as well,” the priestess sighed. “It's a centerpiece of the city, and pilgrims come for many miles to see it. I presume you're a foreigner, young man?”

“Yeah,” he lied. There was no way he'd be able to explain himself, otherwise. It was an easy mistake for anyone to have made.

Simply put, people treated him as if he were slow when he moved to the Imperial City so long ago. A country Nord accent was a means of ridicule in the fast-paced city, so it was imperative that he taught himself how to blend in with their speech in order to gain respect.

The adopted Imperial accent quickly became his own.

“Welcome home, then,” she smiled. “You look as strong as an ox and sharp as a hawk; you'll fit in very well here.”

Erich chuckled to himself. He had not enough body hair – beard and otherwise. Folk in Skyrim would consider him a dandy at best, regardless of his height and strength.

“This tree here is an important part of our culture,” the priestess explained. “It was planted in the early days that Whiterun was founded. Disciples of Kynareth sensed something holy with this tree, and they came to hear the winds of the goddess whisper through its branches. But now that it's dead, we don't get many pilgrims. After all, a dead tree isn't a very fitting symbol for the goddess of life, yes?”

Gross. So it was a holy tree.

He was a wild creature, true; he enjoyed nature in its mystery and chaos, as did many other pieces of Padomay.

But Kynareth? He couldn't suffer her, same as the rest of the Nine.

“I'll be up front with you,” she continued. “You look like an adventurer. Since I've been caring for those affected by the war, I've not been able to take care of this. But I could use some help with fixing this problem here.”

He motioned for her to continue, baffled that she seemed to trust him. Didn't she sense that he was not-her-ancestor?

The priestess rubbed her arms again. “Something about you gives me the chills,” she said. “It must be destiny. To the east of here is a hidden grove where the Eldergleam resides. The tree here was grown from a cutting of that tree, which is likely the oldest living thing in Skyrim, possibly even Tamriel. If I can get some sap from the Eldergleam, then it's possible to revive the Gildergreen.”

Erich nodded slowly. “It's dangerous, isn't it?”

Her shoulders hunched in defeat, confirming his suspicions. There was always a catch to these things, after all.

“In order to get the sap, you'll need to use a special blade that you'll get from Hagravens,” she explained. “It's called Nettlebane. They made it for sacrificing spriggans. There's a nest of them at Orphan Rock, northeast of the ruins of Helgen. Shouldn't be too far of a journey, if you're willing to help, that is.”

Sheogorath turned and gave her a broad smile. “Of course!” he chirped. “In fact, I look forward to immersing myself in your culture. It would be a pleasure.”

“Thank you,” she sighed. “And that's very touching. It's a beautiful way for you to get in touch with your roots. As far as I'm concerned, you are one of us. Go with blessings of the divine wind at your back.”

He bowed his head slightly then turned to leave, a wicked grin spreading across his face. Oh, he'd immerse himself in the culture of Whiterun, alright.

With something to occupy his time for a few hours, Sheogorath strolled through the city, making his way to a dark corner that nobody paid any mind to. After all, walking was a tedious bore, at times.

He traveled through a dark shadow and appeared in front of the Hagravens of Orphan Rock. Offhand, he counted a dozen or so witches of varying ages, all female.

Blood and ritual smoke lay thickly about the camp; claws, bones, feathers, and assorted gore decorated lines strung up between pines and sticks in the ground, reminiscent of the many camps which lay on the Demented side of his Islands. Really, it was a lovely little place.

Across a large fallen log to his left lay a tall, rocky outcropping nestled in the center of a circle of massive pines. There, a large brazier sat, glowing merrily against the backdrop of the darkened forest. Behind it lay a large tent decorated with a hand-made effigy of bone, hide, and antlers. Without a doubt, this was the head crone's tent.

One of the witches – apprentice, by her age – stood and stared at him with a scowl. “What is this man doing here?” she hissed, punctuating the word 'man' with an extra dose of disdain.

A nearby elder stood and quickly grabbed the apprentice by her sleeve. “Quiet! That is no mere man.”

The confused apprentice backed down immediately as the elder stepped forward to motion toward the large tent.

“The leader of our coven is there,” the elder said. “We don't want any trouble.”

Nodding, Sheogorath walked through the camp, aware of the mortals' eyes following him. He crossed the fallen tree which served as a bridge to the second half of the camp and stopped in front of the great tent. Inside, he heard voices speaking in hushed tones about a man in the camp.

After a moment of waiting, a deeply wrinkled, white haired crone shuffled out of the tent, beads and bones clattering in her hair. She carried a wooden staff topped with a glowing spriggan taproot, and judging by the crown of willow on her head, he supposed she was the leader of the coven.

“I've come for your Nettlebane,” he said.

The hunch-backed Hagraven craned her neck in his direction. After a quick study, she turned to one of her sisters and snapped her finger.

“Your arrival was quite unexpected, Lord,” the leader said, her voice gravelly and withered.

“Do you know which Lord I am?” Sheogorath chuckled.

The witch inclined her head downward in as much of a bow as she could manage. “I do not,” she admitted. “But it is your business if you wish to announce yourself, beyond the spell you wear to hide your nature. I will not presume as to which manner of daedra you are. The Nettlebane is yours without contest. We mind our betters.”

He grinned as one of the witches stepped forward with the peculiar blade. “Your senses are strong,” he replied. “The priestess of Kynareth did not know my nature, though she seemed to sense it. I am Lord of the Lunatics, mortal.”

The gasp of the apprentice who meant to attack him earlier made his announcement worth it. Why did it always surprise the mortals so much? He was meant to be a daedra in mortal trappings – always had been, even before he became himself.

“Your presence is a disturbing honor, Lord,” the leader said.

Well, that was a good way of putting it, he supposed.

The witch carrying the Nettlebane bowed as she presented it to him. Chuckling, Sheogorath took it from her and held it up to examine it.

The blade was of rough ebony; hammer marks pitted the blade, a clear sign that its smith hadn't forged many weapons before, if any. But the enchantment on it –

It was one of the most delightfully wicked and poisonous things he'd ever seen.

“Tell me,” he murmured. “What do you think of the Gildergreen?”

“We likely share an opinion on it,” the witch replied.

Sheogorath laughed. “So congenial! But yes, that is true. Your Nettlebane will be put to good use; that much I will say. Now, I must be going. Ta-ta!”

He didn't bother to hide as he leaped across space – a strange sort of recall that wasn't really a spell – to end up in front of the entrance to a cave in the eastern end of Skryim where water bubbled up from the ground in warm pools.

Deep inside the blackened depths of the rock in front of him, Sheogorath felt the unmistakable burn of holiness.

Well, it was no wonder the Eldergleam survived so long; it was sequestered here. The cavern would be interesting to see, at the very least. Sucking in a breath – the air was thick with purity, even out here – he stepped forward into the cavern.

The path ran steeply downward; loose gravel tumbled from underneath his feet to roll into the depths of the cavern. Quickly, however, he saw a light down the tunnel in front of him – the orange glow of a campfire. Voices echoed off the rocks, along with the cheerful sound of cave crickets nearby and the roar of water tumbling off a tall ledge.

The cavern bottomed out around a bend. Framed by the end of the cavern's tunnel, he saw a large pine and the mist of a waterfall. Orange firelight flickered across the tree and glimmered in the nearby water, and if the place weren't so putridly holy, he'd find the whole thing worthy of meditation or romance.

Perhaps, when he was done here, he'd make his own little hidden grotto and pepper it with the most beautiful of the plants that grew in the Shivering Isles.

He stepped out into the spacious cavern and followed a trail of ancient, rotting planks that wound across the base of the cavern, smiling at a patch of dragon tongue flowers that grew off to the side of the path. From here, the stone walls were so high that he couldn't see much of anything, even with his great height. Soon, though, the stone tapered off into a pile of mossy, rotting stumps, revealing more of the cavern.

Layers of rocks climbed upward in a natural path, leading to the top of the cavern where an ancient tree grew, its small, pink flowers and deep purple foliage swaying gently in the wind that funneled down into the cavern from above. A full Secunda cast white light down into the place, making the pilgrims' campfire redundant.

Shaking his head, Sheogorath crossed a bridge and followed the path around the outside of the cavern. The glow of the campfire cast long shadows against the wall of rock behind him as the path circled inward to the worn center of the cavern.

He glanced over at the small circle of mortals centered around the fire and pursed his lips. Foreigners; they probably got cold.

Quickly, Sheogorath hid the Nettlebane and stepped forward, cane in hand. Maybe these mortals wouldn't be so thick with him.

A man looked up from the fire and waved. “Hello, traveler!” he called.

Nope.

Idiot – so many animals out of touch with their instincts, lately. The moment he stepped foot into the scared cavern ought to have pricked their senses.

He was a titan in their midst.

“Have you come to enjoy this beautiful sacred cavern?” the man asked. “This place is unlike any other; you can really hear Kynareth and her life in this place.”

Sheogorath chuckled. “Something like that.”

“Come join us,” the pilgrim said. “We've got plenty of food and drink to share.”

He looked at them and pursed his lips: there was the man here, and another at the fire, accompanied by a woman. Each was a foreigner of some sort, and he wondered what the Stormcloaks thought of these pilgrims traipsing through Eastmarch.

Well, it certainly was no concern of his. He shrugged and approached the campfire.

As the light further touched his face, the pilgrim who so welcomed him frowned.

“You,” he murmured, “you don't look right. Stop right there.”

The other man at the fire frowned and stood when he ignored the man's directive.

Sheogorath didn't stop. He was his own master.

“Stop! I mean it!”

Oh, no. That wouldn't do.

“Kyne's sake, Maurice,” the woman gasped. “What is going on? The man's just – just –”

Sheogorath's eyes met hers from across the campfire and he finally stopped in his tracks.

“What are you?” she said, already backing away at the sight of him.

Unable to hold still, he swayed gently on his feet. “Don't worry about it,” he cooed. “You should help me; I want to do some important work. My power is vast, my dears. Has Kynareth ever visited you so? Even in her own cavern?”

The mortals followed the sway of his head, his serpentine eyes mesmerizing them with the movement.

“No,” the woman intoned.

The man who first greeted him blinked hard and stared at him. “You're right. Maurice, he's right.”

“Of course, Andre,” the other sighed. “Elayne, love, let's help him. We know this place well.”

The woman, Elayne, swayed on her feet as she approached Sheogorath. “Amazing creature,” she awed. “I don't know what you are. You smell good; I can smell you from over here – like flowers and amber.”

He fought the urge to laugh as Maurice and Andre shuffled over to him and drew close. “Make no mistake,” Sheogorath said, “I am the devil.”

“But you're wonderful,” Maurice said.

Andre nodded in agreement.

“Let's do something grand, then,” Sheogorath laughed. “I would have been more subtle with this, but I only have a few hours this time as I've got someone to return to. You'll know what to do; the mood will strike you.”

They were enraptured by him so easily, and while he wasn't one to brute force his way into the minds of mortals, he'd begrudgingly admit that it seemed to get quick results.

Elayne rushed forward and yanked the Nettlebane from his belt with a cackle.

Ah, it was starting.   
  
She ran up the path to the tree, the Eldergleam's roots quickly lifting out of the way of her wildly swinging the poisonous blade. The other two mortals followed quickly behind. When she reached the top, she drew the blade across the bark in a thin line and admired the sap that seeped out of the wound.

The sight pleased her. Cackling, Elayne hacked at the tree with the blade as Sheogorath moseyed up the path. Her laughter echoed throughout the cavern and the great tree shuddered.

Sheogorath stopped in front of the tree and grabbed Andre's hand. Quickly, he summoned a portion of amber from the Shivering Isles, handing it to the trembling mortal.

“I know what to do with this!” Andre laughed.

Sheogorath smiled and patted him on the back. Of course he did! He was inspired! The mortal dashed over to the tree without delay and smashed the bottle of resinous liquid against the tree's gaping wounds.

But Elayne wasn't finished. Screaming, she lashed out with the Nettlebane, plunging it into her companion's back over and over again, even as he came to his senses and begged for her to stop.

“Blood for the Root!” she shouted.

With a final slash of Andre's throat, the deed was done. She turned to Sheogorath and locked eyes with him, something which only the mad mortals could do without flinching at least once. Her hand drew the blade up to her throat.

“I go to enlightenment,” Elayne murmured.

“Yes, of course,” Sheogorath replied. Really, they were being quite creative with this; it'd be a potent mixture, by the time they were done.

With that, she slit her throat – blood spraying across the wounds of the tree and the place where she murdered her friend in a demented frenzy.

Sheogorath shrugged and stepped over her dying body to grab the bloodied Nettlebane. Quickly, he grabbed a sample of the ichor they made: Elder-sap, madness amber, and mortal blood.

This ichor would feed the Gildergreen and give it a new life and purpose. Change would preserve the tree, the same as it preserved Sheogorath. It was a necessary and beautiful thing.

It was time to go. He turned toward the path out of the cave and gave Maurice a quick pat on the back.

“Have a good one,” he chuckled. “I'm sure sometime after you come to, we'll be on speaking terms again.”

The man would come to his senses to see his wife and best friend dead at the base of the destroyed Eldergleam, with no weapon in sight. He'd be ripe for the natural path to madness.

Smiling to himself, Sheogorath hopped down to the base of the waterfall, rinsed the bloodied blade, and quickly inspected it to make sure that it didn't bear any marks of what transpired.

It appeared the same as it had when he picked it up. Good.

He summoned his cane and tapped it on the ground to vanish and return to the shadows of Whiterun. Quickly, he hid the cane, and then traveled up the staircase that led to the dead Gildergreen.

The priestess he spoke to earlier sat on the bench in front of the tree, staring up at its bare branches. Erich scuffed his boot against the path intentionally to draw her attention. Sure enough, the sleep deprived woman jerked and turned to see him approach.

He drew to a stop in front of her bench and swayed on his feet again, in the hopes of putting her under his spell.

“Got your sap,” he said.

Her head followed his movement. So easy, these mortals were. Maybe, he ought to try more forceful tactics once in a while.

“How did you get it so quickly?” the priestess awed.

“Don't worry about that,” he chuckled. “Do your prayer.”

Erich placed the vial of sap and the Nettlebane in her hands and watched as she shivered. Without delay, she shuffled over to the tree and knelt before it. The priestess drew Nettlebane gently against the roots, then poured the sap at the base of the tree.

“Blessed Mania,” she murmured. “Blessed Dementia. Bring us your essence, the spirit of the giggling loons, flamboyant auteurs, and craven mutilators. With this sap, bless this tree with your gnarl and spore. Blessed above all is the Madgod, who tricks mortals when we are foolish, punishes us when we are wrong, tortures us when we are unmindful, and loves the insane in their imperfection.”

The priestess jerked her head and gasped.

“What,” she panted, “What just happened?”

Erich shrugged. “Looked like you went into a spiritual trance.”

She nodded slowly, winced, and rubbed her forehead.

“What will you do?” he asked.

The woman frowned in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“There is no Dragonborn emperor,” he shrugged. “And here the dragons return. Volcanoes erupting, constant war, and mass chaos. Millions dead.”

She nodded slowly and pursed her lips in thought. “These times are trying,” the priestess admitted. “But with faith--”

“What will you do when you realize that the Nine have abandoned creation and miracles no longer happen at their hands?”

The priestess sighed. “Then why did you help us?” she asked. “Why this sudden heresy? When you see that the tree grows anew, perhaps you'll understand the miracles of Kynareth, and the new life she brings.”

“I brought life to this tree,” Sheogorath chuckled. “Certainly not Kynareth.”

“You're the messenger, not the creator. Don't forget that, young man.”

He shook his head and turned to her with a scowl. “What holds the Seventeen at bay? Your so-called powerful Nine Divines? They do not walk among you. They do not speak to you.”

“I am the miracle,” he hissed. “I am among you.”

The priestess backed away with a frown. “You're insane, and a blasphemer to boot. I thank you for helping with the Gildergreen, but I don't want to see you again unless you want to cleanse your erroneous ways. Goodbye.”

Quickly, she spun on her heel and turned toward the temple, forgetting she still held the Nettlebane in her hands.

“God walks!” he spat, not bothering to follow.

The seed was there; it was only a matter of time.

 

* * *

  
Morning came with an unexpected cold snap.

Mehra curled in on herself and burrowed deeply under her covers, even as sunlight began to pour in through the shuttered windows of her home. It wasn't until she heard quiet steps on the creaky floorboards on the floor below that she opened her eyes.

Soon after, she heard the scraping of a hook on the handle of a kettle, and the merry crackling of kindling in the hearth. Deep humming and sparse words in daedric followed, causing her to relax. It was just Erich.

Just Sheogorath, in her home, preparing a kettle and humming a little tune.

This was her life.

Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, Mehra slipped out of bed, a shiver running down her spine at the shock of the cold floor on her feet, and the cold gusts of air that seeped in through what little cracks existed in the house. She quickly grabbed a pair of stockings from the nearby dresser and tugged them on, intent on teasing Erich – just a little – with her flimsy, linen tunic and long stockings.

Mehra descended the stairs, desperately fighting a grin when she saw him look up from the hearth to stare openly. He had how many statuesque and beautiful daedra women at his command? Thousands? And he chose to stare at her.

“Good morning,” she called.

Erich visibly shook himself and abandoned the kettle to approach her.

“Morning,” he replied. He drew her into his arms and attempted to give her a chaste kiss, failing miserably when his hands drifted down to her hips.

The kiss predictably devolved into a slow and heady one – fingers tangled in hair, hands desperately grasping, the pair of them backing against the nearby sideboard. Mehra broke away with a gasp as his hands prepared to lift her hips up onto the table, snapping them both back into reality.

“I'd like to do things with my day,” she coughed, staring up into his eyes. Had she known he'd have such a reaction to what she was wearing, she might have changed.

Erich heaved a deep sigh and backed away. “You're naked under that tunic.”

“And you're naked under your pants,” she quipped. “I want to be comfortable in my own house, you know.”

He leaned in and gave her a quick kiss. “She's always the boss,” he grumbled.

Mehra rolled her eyes then turned to stare at the table under the window. What was all that food? Slowly, she padded over to it, eyeing plates stacked with candies, cakes, cookies, and all manner of sweets. In the center of the table lay a crystalline bowl topped with fruits from all over Tamriel, some of which she'd only seen drawings of.

“Sweets for breakfast, Erich?” she giggled.

He smiled and ushered her over to the table. “Yes, sweets for breakfast. We're adults and we can do as we damn well please.”

“Ah, well,” Mehra said, “when you put it that way –”

“If you want something salty,” he murmured, “I do have something you can put in your mouth.”

She turned to him and crossed her arms. “Erich.”

“Sorry.”

Mehra shook her head, and then turned back to the table. She was hungry, after all.

“Not very sorry, though,” he added.

She rolled her eyes and refused to turn around. “That makes two of us, guy.”

“She's so spicy today,” Erich mused, giving her a grin that made her want to keep pushing him.

Mehra smiled despite herself and grabbed a plate of sweets as he flopped into a nearby chair. She wasn't certain if she could trust him with her body for more than five minutes.

With her plate full of treats – and some fruit, in a meek attempt to be healthy – Mehra pulled a chair next to him, sat down, and began to eat.

Mm. This food was pure heaven. She never had anything like it until she became a Telvanni Master, and that time was fleeting.

Mehra supposed that Erich had a few of these things. Certainly his family would have had holidays with a few treats, and certainly, the Empire's banquets had delicacies innumerable.

And the Shivering Isles? Indulging one's happiness was a key part to living on at least half of the island.

She stared down at the plate of food and sighed. He did some horrible things, true, but overall, he deserved such nice things in his life. Erich wasn't a complete and total shit with his life – not like she had been.

Oh, and how he suffered unduly for being who he was. His father saw no use in magic and sent him to the Academy at Windhelm, rather than Winterhold. Even when he joined the Mages Guild, his guildmates saw him as a shiftless lout, rather than the naturally talented person he was. Few bothered to even attempt to train him. He stayed dangerously untrained his entire life and endured everything that went with it:

Self-destructive spellcasting. Unintentional casts. Overcompensating when he cast. And the worst one: overtaxing his magicka to the point that it gave him pain and suffering.

That didn't happen anymore, did it? He was a god.

“I've got a strange question for you,” Mehra said. “But I would like to know.”

“Ask away!”

Erich jiggled his legs like a child as he sat in his chair. It wasn't the way she remembered him; he never wasted an action. Every movement he made was graceful and precise, and back then, he seemed to be a bundle of pent up energy.

This new Erich, this occasionally extremely chipper person, was sweet. His insane side built upon the smiling jokester that he used to be, and created a startlingly innocent personality that showed itself every so often.

She swallowed the urge to kiss him on the cheek. He was Erich, yes; he was sweet and attentive and caring as ever. But he was also Sheogorath, capable of calling the cosmos to crash down into the world to destroy it. A kiss on the cheek was patronizing, at best.

It was incredibly humbling that he spent his time with her, really.

“Do you cast anymore?” Mehra asked. “And by that I mean: Does it hurt you? Do you get those horrible headaches anymore?”

Erich stopped jiggling his legs and looked at her with a smile.

“I've got no physical pain, dear,” he replied. “Not from casting, not from stubbing my pinky toe, and no headaches. Not much could hurt me.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “I'm glad you don't get that anymore,” she said.

“You thought you were so mean,” Erich chuckled. “But I remember you holding my head and rubbing my temples while we lay in a dark room. You cast every restoration spell you knew on me – didn't give up until you were sweating and panting, even though none of them worked. There was a caring hero inside there all along.”

Mehra sighed and shook her head. “I was a terrible tease to you.”

“It was complicated, wasn't it?” he replied, giving her a pained smile.

“It was about power,” she said. “Keeping the only person in the world who could stand up to me wrapped around my finger. And I was afraid of love.”

Erich straightened his legs out in front of him. “I had no clue at the time,” he admitted. “I'd had countless relationships before you. I had a habit of looking for love in all the wrong places. I still do, even as a god. Amazing, isn't it?”

“And the concept of attachment still terrifies me,” Mehra chuckled. “Amazing how far we've come, yet stayed the same.”

Mehra continued her breakfast in silence. After Eorlund was finished with Wuuthrad, and after the Circle visited Ysgramor's tomb, she would be off to Solstheim again. She didn't have any business there, but she never had business matters to attend to with Neloth, aside from requesting an Elder Scroll. It was nice to unwind there.

She felt the need to send a letter to Neloth to announce that she planned to visit soon, but writing the letter with Erich there seemed –

Well, horrible. What would he do if he found out that she was involved – loosely – with someone? It wasn't as if she and Neloth made any promises to each other, but the Daedric Princes were known to be jealous of their mortals.

The last thing she wanted was for Neloth to get killed by an angry Sheogorath after a long and prosperous three thousand years of life. And besides; she liked him, a bit.

Just a bit.

“I wish you didn't feel awkward around me,” he sighed. “I mean, I'm crazy, but I'm not going to hurt you over Neloth.”

Mehra froze. He knew.

“See, you're scared,” Erich said. “You didn't answer to me when I was a mortal, and you don't answer to me now.”

Suddenly, she didn't feel like eating.

“You know,” he continued, “it's good to find someone like you, you know? Maybe not exactly like me and maybe we don't have everything in common, but maybe he's just lingering in my mind because we did have a bond of a sort.”

Mehra blinked. “Erich, what you just said was incredibly vague.”

Erich's cheeks flushed in embarrassment. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I've um, made a friend. We've been having a lot of fun.”

Oh. So they were even, in a way. Good.

“Tell me about him,” she said, quickly stuffing another bite in her mouth.

“You tell me about Neloth first,” he chuckled.

She sighed as the sweetroll in her mouth lost its flavor.

“Is this,” Mehra mumbled. “Is this normal for you or something?”

She never had any relationships to even know what she liked in someone, much less the possibility of keeping two 'flings' around, if Erich and Neloth counted as such a thing.

Erich tilted his head to the side. “You mean being multi-relational? Something like that? Yeah. You didn't know that about me?”

“I suspected it when you told me about seeing Martin and Lucien at the same time,” she shrugged. “Alright. Fine.”

So she told him about Neloth, each passing second she spoke giving her the uncomfortable feeling that she might like the old coot more than she first thought.

As a person. A friend person.

A friend person who knew her other friend person's secret identity.

Mehra pushed her plate to the side and put her head in her hands. Really, she needed to learn to shut up.

“What?” Erich said.

Time to get it out there, she supposed. She didn't know what he'd do to her, but it was best to come clean. Nothing good would come from lying to a Daedra Lord. They probably quite literally smelled mortal lies.

“He knows about you,” Mehra swallowed. “Everything. And I am so, so sorry for betraying your trust. I just felt like–”

She sucked in a breath and shook her head as Erich stared at her, waiting for her to continue.

“I trust Neloth,” she admitted. “He's got a horrible attitude at times and has some serious pride issues, but I think he's a good person – relatively, that is.”

Erich pursed his lips and nodded slowly. “He knows what I am about,” he shrugged. “So I don't mind him knowing. He's not going to spread it around. Be discreet, otherwise.”

She nodded quietly. He was too kind. Much, much too kind.

Mehra cleared her throat. “Well, you're not getting off the hook. You were talking about someone earlier.”

There was a smile he got at the thought of this person – a smile that made her double take.

“Well, he's just a lot of fun,” Erich said. “Sometimes over the top, but he knows how to have a good time in ways I never imagined.”

He tipped his chair backward, balancing on two legs. It groaned under his weight.

“Yeah? What's he look like?”

“Black and red skin,” Erich replied. “Tall and chubby. Very strong body. Calls his belly his 'fuck cushion'. Handsome, black horns. Black talons. Red eyes and black hair. Black and red all over, really.”

“Sanguine?”

“Yes, I'm quite happy, darling.”

“No,” she sighed. “I mean, is his name Sanguine?”

“Oh!” Erich laughed. “Yes! It is Sanguine. He's ah – he's not the monogamous sort. But to be honest, I'm not really either. I figured you might want to know before you get your hands on me.”

Mehra cleared her throat. Well, since they were being honest about these sorts of things–

“Speaking of hands-on,” she murmured, “I might have had a bit of Sanguine, too.”

The chair tumbled backward, sending Erich crashing to the floor. A loud curse followed soon after – one in a language she didn't understand.

“Hooooow?!” he shouted. A quiet snicker followed soon after, putting her mind somewhat at ease.

“With his penis, actually,” she deadpanned.

Erich burst out in a fit of cackles the likes of which she'd never heard. After a minute of nonstop laughing, he drew in a deep breath and stopped.

“Ah,” he sighed, “you're funny.” The chair tilted upright by magical force, bringing Erich and his stupid amount of hair back up with it.

“Seriously though,” Mehra said, “I met him in a backwater inn. He was disguised as a handsome Breton and challenged me to a drinking contest. Seeing that I was going to lose – and honestly, I don't drink much anyway – I decided to get a room with him. Didn't know it was Sanguine until the morning after when he left a note and a rose on the nightstand.”

He pursed his lips and shook his head.

“I hope you're not put off by it,” she frowned.

“Nah,” Erich shrugged, “That sounds just like him. And I'd have no room to talk; I'm uh – intimate with half of my army, practically.”

“You make it sound like you exist in a haze of drugs, sex, and alcohol,” she drawled.

Erich laughed out loud. “Oh my!” he said. “I mean, I do sometimes. But I have very important things to do all the time.”

Mehra shot him an incredulous look and watched as he hunched in his seat.

“Haskill does the important things,” he admitted. “But that's what chamberlains are for!”

She shook her head. “So you still sit there and look pretty, and have everyone else do things for you?”

“Yep,” Erich said. “Things change, but they don't. Kind of like talking with you; I love it when you sass off.”

Mehra stood and stretched, careful to not expose herself any more than she already had. Part of her forgot that daedra were like – well, animals. They certainly had no societal Temple values impressed upon them, and the Daedra Lords followed their natures strongly.

But sex was not part of Sheogorath's sphere. Perhaps, he was hanging around Sanguine too much? Or, maybe, it had to do with mania? Maybe the phrase 'mad about you'?

Regardless, she supposed she ought to be careful and only encourage it when he was absolutely certain that he wouldn't have a demented snap.

“New normal it is, then.” Mehra smirked and made her way up the stairs.

“The new normal really is a comfortable type of uncomfortable,” he called.

She pursed her lips as she entered the bedroom. Hm.

Mehra grabbed a pair of pants from the dresser and tugged them on. “You know,” she replied, “that kind of makes sense.”

She hopped into her boots, fully aware of the chuckling daedra downstairs.

“Oh, does it now?” Erich replied.

Mehra didn't have to see him to know that he waggled his eyebrows with that statement. And likely, he knew that she immediately rolled her eyes.

Shaking her head, she put her armor on piece by piece – it was her new 'hero uniform', she supposed – and fastened her sword by her side. Mehra quickly leaned over the dresser to write a quick letter to Neloth, which was much more for Varona's benefit than his. With the letter finished, she threw her hair into a quick bun, then jogged down the stairs with her letter in hand, snagging her helm on the way.

Erich waited at the bottom of the stairs, a half-eaten apple in his hand. His stomach was a damned garbage pit when she knew him, but he preferred to stuff it with apples if he had a choice. And now, she figured that he could eat all the apples he could possibly want, without a care in the world.

“Where to, today?” he asked.

“Oh,” she murmured, “you – you're staying? Not that I don't want that; I'm just surprised.”

He gave her a brilliant smile. “Just one more day, yeah. You're waiting on something for the Companions, right?”

Mehra nodded.

“Let's have some fun, then,” Erich chuckled. Leaning over, he offered his arm to her.

She stared at it for a moment, then finally relented and hooked her arm into the crook of his elbow. As he led her out the door and into the street, Mehra thought of how strange it seemed – armored warriors going arm-in-arm for a morning stroll – but quickly realized that she made much more of a scene in dozens of other ways many years ago.

And sometimes, she and Erich caused those scenes. Those were simpler times, when they strolled around the countryside of Cyrodiil, raiding Ayleid ruins and rundown forts for treasure. If she closed her eyes, Mehra remembered the whisper of wind in the thick trees high above Chorrol and the scents of all of the seasons – couldn't pick a favorite, not with the vast beauty of Cyrodiil.

Sighing, she leaned in to his arm.

“Remember when?” Mehra murmured, unsure of how to complete her thought.

“I do, yeah,” Erich replied.

He knew exactly what she was talking about. Erich learned to slow down, and Mehra learned a little about opening up. They weren't perfect – both terribly cruel on their own – but they learned about themselves as they traveled Cyrodiil for the better part of a year.

Her foolish, sentimental side wanted to do it again.

But, she had work to do. There was always work to do.

“I can't go too far,” Mehra said. “If the Companions need me, I need to be nearby. Circle business: that kind of stuff.”

Erich nodded quietly and continued to lead her toward the front gate of the city. She thought back to how he told her the amount of times he'd been cooped up at Cloud Ruler Temple, waiting for plans to be made.

It made her wonder how Delphine and Esbern fared, so far out in the wilderness by themselves. Did Delphine pick up a history book? Did they work on their fighting skills and spells? Were they able to get enough healthy food?

Mehra quickly found a courier to deliver her letter and made a mock show of protesting when Erich offered to pay for the postage. She was certain that he could quite literally summon gold with all of his powers. But, it wasn't lost on her that he went out of his way to help her with her letter to Neloth. The doubts she had over Erich's acceptance of Neloth vanished as he dumped a large amount of coin into the courier's hands.

With the letter out of the way, they continued toward the city gates, unhurried. Mehra eyed the inner front gate of the city and watched as the guards did their rounds. There seemed to be many more of them, today, and Mehra knew it wasn't without reason. Still, she couldn't imagine such a tedious job of standing around, any more than she could understand staying in one place willfully.

Her feet ached for the road, her eyes yearned for new sights, and her heart desired the rush of adventure.

The pair passed through the inner gate and made their way past guard towers and stations toward the large, main gate of the city. An argument between a pair of guards and a small group of foreigners – Alik'r – quickly drew her attention. Mehra tugged on Erich's arm to direct him toward the commotion, and surprisingly, he offered no resistance.

One of the guards gestured wildly, his frown evident behind the small vents in his helm.

“Damn right we ain't lettin' you in!” the guard huffed. “Don't know you from Shor's bollocks, guy. Anyone heavily armed who can't be vouched for will have to wait to pass clearance.”

The Alik'r sighed and crossed his arms. “We're official people, sent on an official investigation for the people of Hammerfell. We sure as shit aren't rebels.”

The guard on the other side of the gate leaned over. “We ain't taken a side in the war,” he said. “Whiterun is neutral. Our Jarl values his people; that's why we aren't letting strange warriors shuffle on in. But I guarantee you can get lodging and a great pint just outside the gates. Why, Honningbrew is right out there.”

The first guard nodded. “And rest your feet, too,” he said. “Outside the gate. Not inside. Get on, then; you're holding up the line.”

Frustrated, the Alik'r turned to his traveling companions and motioned them back down the hill. Mehra stared after them with a frown.

They looked quite well rested, to be honest; maybe they stayed outside the gate and decided to try their luck this morning. Or, did they want to go in to the city fully rested? If they had business, they certainly didn't state it plainly enough to be let in.

“Assassins,” Mehra mumbled.

Erich chuckled and moved his arm to wrap around her waist, confirming her suspicions.

One of the previously embroiled guards turned to see her approach the gate. Quickly, he waved her over.

“Hail, Companion,” he said. “Don't know if you're up to it, but if you've got a moment, there's a guy – well, a group of guys – who want in here; warriors from Hammerfell, with curved swords. Can't miss em. They won't state their business, so the rules say I can't let them in.”

“You feel suspicious of them?” she asked.

He nodded. “Aye. Nothing to do with them being foreigners, of course, ma'am. If you can find out what they want and see if it's legitimate, then I've no problem letting them in. Don't want rumors going around that we're nasty like Windhelm.”

“I saw you talking to them,” Mehra admitted. “I'll go see what I can find out. Been looking for something productive to do near town, and Whiterun has been welcoming and supportive since I moved to Skyrim.”

His eyes smiled from behind his helm. “Appreciated, Companion. And we are grateful of your dragon slaying.”

He glanced up at Erich and blinked. “Well met, big guy. This one belongs with you, Dragonborn?”

No.

No, he didn't. He belonged on another plane of existence – one where the insane lived out their eternity in alternating torment and rapture.

“Yeah,” she lied.

Erich gave her hip a reassuring squeeze. Well, at least he didn't mind, she supposed.

“I'll add you to the list and let the others know,” the guard said. “You'll be damned hard to forget. You're welcome in Whiterun, as a friend of the Dragonborn.”

Mehra thanked him, though she was quite certain that Sheogorath went wherever he damn well pleased. At the very least, it proved that Erich was mortal-passing when he didn't say something strange.

With that, they made their way down the hill, stopping near the stable when Mehra caught the voice of the Alik'r warrior from before.

“Look, I don't like it either,” he murmured. “I'd rather do it ourselves to make sure it's right. But with the city on lockdown like it is, we're going to have to get some help. Lots of mercenaries wandering around the countryside right now.”

“So, what?” another grumbled. “We get the biggest, strongest guy we can to throw her over his shoulder and carry her out to us?”

“I get that we're all frustrated,” the leader said. “I really do. I'll know the right mercenary when we see them. We're not hiring just any brute, believe me.”

Mehra pursed her lips and continued walking. Interesting; so, they definitely were assassins of some sort. It seemed, however, that they were looking for a live capture.

That would be difficult to pull off in a city as big as Whiterun, if their target was even there.

“You two,” the man called. “Are you mercenaries?”

Ah. There was the hook. Mehra gently tugged on Erich's arm and pulled him in the direction of the Alik'r.

“A mercenary couple, perhaps?” he chuckled. “We're looking for a woman in this city. We'll pay well for her capture. You two look extremely capable; one doesn't get that kind of gear just sitting around.”

Mehra shifted her weight to the side and tugged on the fastener that held her Skyforge steel sword in place – she really needed to get that adjusted; the leather stretched out a bit with use.

“Who is this person?” she asked. “And why is she being chased all the way across the continent?”

“I don't know if that's my business to share,” the man admitted. He glanced back at his traveling companions, who quickly nodded in agreement.

Hm. So, they were under orders from someone else. It was disappointing, but unsurprising, really. Mehra wasn't sure if she could trust them – not if they didn't tell her exactly why they needed someone captured alive. But that was the way mercenaries generally worked; few, if any, were bound by moral details.

And she was one of them, years ago; she'd take the side of whoever threw the most coins her way. It was one of the reasons why she joined up with House Telvanni. They certainly knew how to throw gold at a problem, and the hoards of riches the Masters all had were legendary.

The appeal for a magically inclined street urchin to join House Telvanni was strong.

“If you want to help,” he continued, “there's coin in it for you. She's a foreigner, like us. Very dark skinned; not sure what her hair looks like now, but it was black and very curly. Hazel eyes. Short, slim build. Broad, flat nose. Scars on her left cheek in a long line from a training accident. Beautiful woman – part of the nobility. Listen to her voice; you'll probably hear the accent.”

“I'll keep an eye out,” Mehra replied. “Where will I find you?”

“We're going to go on ahead to Rorikstead,” he replied. “If you do find her, come get us; we'll arrange a pickup from there.”

“Sounds good.”

With that, she turned on her heel to head back up to Whiterun as the Alik'r warriors headed down the road to the west. Rorikstead was a good place for them to hide out; it was far enough from Whiterun that their presence wouldn't be suspicious, but it was convenient enough for them to be able to arrange a meeting well enough.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Mehra leaned in to Erich's side.

“Let's uh,” Mehra mumbled, “let's go back and try to find this person. I don't trust this at all.”

She looked to Erich for confirmation; his smirk said it all.

“Am I right?” she asked.

“Oh, I'll never tell,” he snickered. “You've got to choose your own path.”

Of course, the Daedra Lord wasn't going to help her out. What would be the fun in that?

“Is this one of your tests?” Mehra pouted.

Erich's expression steeled immediately. “No. You don't want me to test you.”

“Alright,” she mumbled, hunching her shoulders in defeat.

She hadn't seen him so serious – near angry, really – in a long time. It was as if the notion of him testing her was distasteful and offensive to him. Amazing that something could be offensive to Sheogorath, of all beings. She'd have to be more careful in the future.  
  
In the meantime, Mehra wanted to investigate this fugitive business.

Her instincts told her that there was much more to it than a simple bounty.

 


	28. 27 pt II

A/n: Quick note that there is sexual content in this half of the chapter at the end. There's a bit of a buildup beforehand, so you'll know to stop reading before it starts getting graphic. You'll be able to skip around it pretty well if sex scenes aren't your thing; I totally understand some people just don't like that stuff.  
  
  
  
Wall of text incoming. I'm chatty, okay? XD  
  
Some of you might be wondering what I think of Skyrim Special Edition... I'm kind of 'meh' on the whole thing. I've got Skyrim on pc. It's a 'free upgrade' for pc and that's really nice and really smart of them, as they are going to want pc users to develop mods for the new Ed. Does this mean it's an auto-update that replaces vanilla files (basically, a dev-created modpack)? Or is it a standalone game? That's unknown, as of the publishing of this chapter. But I have a ton of mods, so I do wonder how the SE will stack up to my modded version. I'll be turning off my auto-update, just in case; I want to make an informed decision as to whether or not to upgrade.

And obviously, I'll be backing up Mehra's save file multiple times over. She's very important :)

I think the SE is most exciting for the console userbase. Y'all get to try the exciting world of mods! How fun! Mind your load order on your mods, and be prepared to CTD (Hm, 'crash to dashboard' rather than 'crash to desktop'??). Save often in new slots! And just have fun.

 

* * *

 

They climbed the hill back up to Whiterun in silence, passing by the guards at the gate without any trouble. Mehra eyed the bustling streets and the crowds of people who went about their morning business. There were dozens of Redguards within her field of view alone, but none whom looked out of their element or nervous. Even then, the fugitive could presumably be good at keeping her head down.

Mehra pursed her lips. When in doubt, she always checked the most popular tavern. Innkeepers generally talked too much, especially with trustworthy people.

She fought the urge to laugh as she led Erich up the street toward the Bannered Mare. Somehow, she qualified as a trustworthy person.

“You're practically humming with amusement,” Erich observed.

Mehra cracked a smile. “Was just thinking about how easily I may be able to find this person on my reputation as a trustworthy person alone.”

“Ah,” he chuckled. “I suppose that is novel to you. Once you find out the value of your words, I believe you'll find the experience quite – hm. Intoxicating. Yes, intoxicating.”

“I should have known you'd say something like that,” she replied.

She continued toward the tavern, silently vowing to herself that she wouldn't become the worst parts of Erich: corruptible, greedy, manipulative, thieving, and vain. Mehra felt terrible thinking it, of course; from the things she did in Morrowind, she certainly had no room to pass judgment.

But it was nonetheless true, and Erich, for all of his faults, would readily agree to it.

Ten minutes later found them inside the busy tavern, seated at a table in the back. Erich slouched in his chair while they waited. He seemed to take up the entire corner of the room, and his eyes followed the busy mortals in fascination.

As they waited for someone to stop by the table to see what they needed, Mehra looked around. Nobody seemed out of the ordinary, and from what she remembered, most of these people were ones she'd seen before throughout her time–

What in Oblivion?

The table shook. Water sloshed inside the pitcher on the table, and the silverware rattled against the heavy wooden tabletop.

Mehra turned to see Erich jiggling his legs. Frowning, she reached over and grabbed his thigh.

“Stop,” she hissed, hoping desperately that they weren't being too conspicuous.

He stared down at her hand with wide eyes and quietly grabbed her wrist.

Well, she was in trouble.

To her horror, instead of slapping her away, he slowly dragged her hand up his thigh.

“Under the table,” Erich murmured. “It'll be fun. Come on.” His face betrayed no emotion as he led her toward his goal.

Absolutely not! She did a lot of things she wasn't proud of in her time, and she wasn't about to add to the list.

“I'm sorry for the wait,” a woman called. “Busy morning.”

Mehra yanked her hand away from Erich's, hoping desperately that this woman hadn't seen her groping someone – accidental or otherwise – at the table. She turned to the table-hand and gave her a smile.

Hm.

Dark skin. Bright, hazel eyes. Black hair; straightened, but a few strands of very tightly coiled curls stuck out here and there. Posture of a noble, and her hands were incredibly smooth for a peasant working tables at a tavern.

And there definitely was an accent. Could this be the person they were looking for? Was it really that easy?

The woman brushed her hair behind her ear, revealing scars on the left side of her face. This had to be the one.

“If you're from Hammerfell,” Mehra said, “your life might be in danger.”

The woman's face fell immediately.

Erich shifted in his seat and sighed. “Smooth.”

Mehra didn't have anything to say in reply to that. She was doing her best, which admittedly, wasn't great given that she used to bludgeon her way through situations.

“I'm off my shift after breakfast,” the woman said. “If you're able to take a look at the dagger I've got, I'd be grateful. Can't afford to get a written appraisal from a smith.”

Erich propped his legs up on the chair across from him. “Yeah? Ebony blade, maybe?”

“I'm not entirely sure,” she replied. “Might be tarnished silver. Anyway, we can discuss it later in private. Tea, in the meantime?”

“That would be great,” Mehra said.

With that, the fugitive left to grab a small kettle of hot water. Quickly, she placed it on the table, along with a pair of cups and saucers. They waited for the tea to brew and watched as the tavern filled with guests.

Mehra had a feeling that they'd be waiting for the better part of an hour before the crowd died down enough that the woman could slip away from waiting tables to talk to them.

“It's been a while since we shared some tea,” Erich said. “You, um, still really like it, yeah?”

Mehra nodded. “Always.”

He regarded the kettle with a thoughtful look. “It's still one of my favorites, too. We've got dozens – hundreds – of flavors back home. Quite a few have um, 'medicinal' effects. Anything you'd like. Also, anything you wouldn't like. Mixed bag, really.”

Out of habit, Erich grabbed the teapot and poured for her first, then filled his own cup. Mehra figured that she ought to be the one serving it, given his station. But the fact that he did it was generous in and of itself.

Mehra raised the cup to her lips, took a sip, and put it back down. “Do you still like the classics, though?”

“Always,” he smiled. “I'll drink it plain. My friend, Sam – ah, you know Sam – puts booze in his when it's cold out. Other times, he'll put in heaps of sugar and syrup.”

She chuckled, shook her head, and stared down at her tea. “It's oddly comforting to hear about you both doing such mundane and normal things, honestly.”

“We're all star stuff,” Erich replied. “Not made of the same things, but I theorize that those beginning opposites had a common origin.”

“Makes sense.”

They spent the rest of the time in a comfortable silence. Mehra watched as Erich observed the mortals around the tavern in wonder, as if he'd forgotten what it was like to be terrestrial. She supposed that was somewhat true; it had been over two hundred years since he became a new being.

And, if he spent time among the mortals and watching them, perhaps it would make him a better ruler in the long run. Mehra wondered what the daedra under his command thought of the whole thing – of a mortal carrying the mantle of Sheogorath and becoming one of their blood.

It wasn't her right to ask such an intimate question. He'd probably tell her, but Mehra didn't want to pain him with it. And if Sheogorath's reputed paranoid side was anything to go off of, she didn't want to cause him to become suspicious of his own people any more than he already was.

Customers filed in and out of the tavern, slowing gradually as the fugitive put on a brave face and attended to them. Erich and Mehra drank through three of the small kettles of tea before the crowd finally slowed enough that the fugitive woman could ask proprietor for a small break. With her boss' approval, the woman approached the table with a nervous smile on her face.

“Thanks for waiting,” she said. “I've got the dagger in my quarters.”

She motioned toward the tavern's private section and led them through the doorway, past racks of drying herbs, stacks of crates, and rows of barrels. They climbed a short set of stairs up into the attic and back into a small, sectioned off area.

The room was sparse, but cozy. A small, single bed lay in the corner, and a dresser sat opposite. Against the wall that backed to the tavern's ceiling were a small, rough wooden table and a pair of plain wooden chairs. A worn carpet lay in the center, more gray than blue with the amount of wear it endured.

“Well, I hope that went well enough,” the fugitive mumbled.

“This covert stuff is easier when I can act like a prostitute or something,” Erich chuckled. “Good thinking there, about the dagger. You're sharp.”

“The city has seen you with the Dragonborn,” she replied. “I highly doubt that anyone would believe you to be a prostitute.”

Erich laughed and nodded. “Well, appearances can be deceiving. That's all I'll say. Now: to business.”

The woman sighed, nodded, and slumped as she sat on the bed. “I'm assuming that since you told me that my life is in danger,” she said, “that hopefully, you're on my side. What did they offer you? Gold? How many are there?”

Mehra pulled a chair out from the table and sat. “Gold. Unspecified amount. The group was half a dozen. There's probably more out there.”

“And you're the Dragonborn,” the woman said. “People have been talking about you. You're the only woman I've seen who remotely fits the description. I'm honestly shocked that you'd want to get involved in something like this.”

“I want to do the right thing,” Mehra replied.

The woman's face softened. “Then you're the only person I can trust in this city,” she sighed. “Well, you and your friend here.”

Erich nodded. “Name's Erich.”

“I'm going by the name Saadia right now,” the woman sighed. “My real name is Iman. I am a noble of House Suda in Hammerfell.”

Mehra pursed her lips. “And I am Mehra. Great House Telvanni, Morrowind.”

Iman – Saadia; she had to use the woman's cover name – seemed to perk up at the idea of another noble helping her. It was a bit of a lie, yes, but if it helped her relax at least a little, then there wasn't any harm.

“The Alik'r following me are assassins,” Saadia said. “They are working for the Aldmeri Dominion and want to drag me back to Hammerfell for execution.”

Oh no. It was worse than Mehra feared. At least, it was according to Saadia's story. What if this was a lie? What if she actually needed to face justice?

“You both look tough,” Saadia continued. “If there's a way you can root them out where they're hiding and get rid of them, I can probably stay here and start a new life. I – I really like Whiterun. Hulda is a great boss.”

“I like it here, too,” Mehra agreed. “So, do you have any more information? Anything that can help us find these guys?”

Saadia nodded. “They're led by a man named Kematu. The good thing is that they're all mercenaries; get rid of their leader, and they won't bother. But obviously, I've got no clue where they're hiding out.”

Well, at least they had a name. That was more information than the group at the gate gave. But given the idea that these guys were potentially working for the Aldmeri Dominion–

“I bet with how desperate they are,” Mehra mused, “one of them must have tried to sneak into the city. Maybe we should check the jail, just in case. So, why exactly are they after you?”

“Well, I spoke against the Aldmeri Dominion,” she replied. “And as someone in a powerful House, that's reason enough to get a mark put on you. A friend warned me before they could find me at home.”

Mehra stood and tucked the chair back in to the table. “That's as good a reason as any, for them. I'll look into it and let you know when they're gone.”

“I appreciate that,” Saadia said. “I'll have to lay low here in the meantime.”

Mehra nodded. “Don't leave the city.”

With that, she and Erich left the room, descended the stairs, and made their way to the bar. Mehra quickly paid their tab and motioned toward the door. Wordlessly, they walked through the city, climbing the stone stairs in front of Dragonsreach to take the path around the keep toward the prison.

The slouching guard posted in front of the door leading to the prison straightened at the sight of them and watched as they approached.

“Hail, Companion-Dragonborn,” he said. “This is the prison, madam. Surely, you wouldn't have business here with brigands.”

Mehra stopped in front of the guard, with Erich looming behind her. How mundane this entire thing must be to him, as powerful and knowledgeable as he was.

“I may,” she replied. “Have you had trouble with any Alik'r warriors?”

The guard frowned. “We have. Caught one trying to sneak into the city. He's in here.”  
  
“I need to speak with him, urgently.”

He opened the door and motioned inside. “I've no problem with that.”

Mehra thanked the guard, and he shouted into the prison that the Dragonborn wanted a word with the Alik'r. Apparently, in Whiterun it was as simple and easy as that. Then again, slaying a dragon outside the city certainly did leave a good impression on everyone.

She felt a bit undeserving. The Whiterun guard did most of the work, in her opinion.

She shoved the thought aside and entered the dimly lit prison. A waiting area and guard station filled the small room that served as an entrance to the prison proper. The warden at the desk at the far end of the room stood and motioned for them to follow.

“Whatever you need,” he said, “I suppose it must be important. After the incident, we aren't letting just anyone into the city, and this guy figured he'd have a go at sneaking in. If you need to rough him up, go ahead.”

“Hopefully he just talks,” Mehra replied.

They stopped in front of the first cell as the warden searched for the proper key on his keyring. “Don't get excited, guy,” he called. “Someone would like to have a word with you. It's best you answer.”

With that, he unlocked the door, pulled the handle, and pushed it open. The heavy, iron door slowly opened inward with a groan.

Mehra sucked in a breath and stepped into the cell, forcing her mind to still. She wasn't imprisoned here. She hadn't done anything wrong. She didn't have to stay.

Still, it was nauseating.

The Alik'r warrior shifted on his cot and slowly stood. “Well, something you want?” he asked.

The warden and guards present shuffled toward the entrance of the cell – whether to stand by in case she needed help, or to watch, she couldn't rightfully say.

Mehra wanted to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible. It didn't matter that Erich stood behind her; she was standing in a prison cell.

“Where is Kematu hiding?” she asked. “You've got one chance to answer before I get impolite.”

The Alik'r warrior reeled back in shock, and then quickly remembered himself.

“You know that name?” he chuckled. “You must have a death wish, then. Because if you meet him, it will certainly be your end.”

One of the guards standing in the doorway let out a low whistle. “Damn, guy, you are a fool.”

Mehra turned from the prisoner to look at Erich. He crossed his arms and smirked. Shaking her head, she turned back to the Alik'r.

“Do you know who I am?” she said.

Ah, she hadn't said that one in a long time. Mehra didn't want to admit that it felt good, but, it certainly did. It took the edge off her anxiousness over being in a prison cell.

“No,” he drawled. “And I suppose you're going to have your big enforcer guy here rough me up, now?”

Mehra shook her head. “I am the enforcer.”

She stormed forward, grabbed the fabric draped across his shoulders, and slung him against the wall. Staring the Alik'r down, Mehra gave him an extra shake for emphasis.

“Where is Kematu?”

He shook his head. “You're going to have to do better than that.”

Erich chuckled behind her. “Hear that?” he said. “Guy likes it rough.”

The guards laughed along with Erich, and her vicious streak couldn't help but encourage her to chuckle with them.

Without warning, Mehra hauled him up by the cloth around his shoulders – she'd missed being so strong – then kicked his legs out to drop him. Her hand darted out to grab his arm, and with a swift, practiced yank, popped his shoulder out of its socket.

The Alik'r warrior shouted in pain and held his working arm up to yield.

“Swindler's Den,” he groaned. “West of here. Few hours travel. He – He's dangerous.”

“As am I,” Mehra replied. “Stand up.”

He gathered his strength and slowly stood, hissing in pain on the way up. “I gathered that,” he said.

“This will hurt,” she murmured.

Mehra backed him to the wall and popped his shoulder back in place, earning another scream. Erich grinned behind her at the man's squirming, but she had enough of it. Quickly, Mehra placed her hands on the man's wounded shoulder and cast a strong restoration spell.

“I'm surprised you're healing me,” the Alik'r said. “Not that I'm not grateful, of course.”

The spell finished healing his shoulder, and Mehra patted him on the back. “I'm not good at the talking bits,” she admitted. “Figured I owed you a chance, first. You're going to have to find a new employer, by the way; Kematu is living on borrowed time.”

The Alik'r shrugged. With the interrogation complete, Mehra turned and left the cell. Quickly, the warden locked the door as the remaining guards dispersed to go back to their duties. He took Mehra over to his desk, unrolled a map, and showed her where Swindler's Den was located. It was many hours out of the way, as the prisoner said, but Mehra figured that since she had Erich with her, the walk wouldn't be tedious.

Besides that, any time spent not in prison was time well spent, in her opinion.

Together, they made their way out of the city and turned down the road toward the west. Once they were out of earshot of people passing by, Erich leaned over and nudged her arm.

“Watching you threaten people is and always will be arousing,” he mumbled. “Just, you know, something to think about.”

Mehra cleared her throat and stared off at the horizon. She'd forgotten he was like that.

“You've given me a lot to think about today,” she replied. “Most of it: dreadful, because you're set on being horny with me. I don't think you're being entirely fair to me through this whole thing.”

“I'll find some way to make it up to you.”

Mehra chuckled and shook her head. Part of her wondered if he was all talk, given that he had a fear of becoming accidentally violent with her. She didn't want to test that, really. If he ever had a moment where he was certain, he'd make a move.

They continued on in silence for a long time until they found the dirt path that led deeper into the open wilderness. According to the map, this path led past two rundown shrines and eventually, led to the cave where the Alik'r assassins hid. A glance out at the horizon revealed nobody out on the plains, as far as she could see.

The weeds were thicker here, and the path narrowed, sometimes disappearing altogether for a few paces. It was doubtful they'd see anyone until they arrived at the hideout.

“So, we're off to get this Kematu guy,” Erich mused. “Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I didn't see any evidence on way or another as to why this woman is a fugitive. Correct?”

Mehra pursed her lips. Damn if he wasn't right, though; she couldn't validate nor disprove Saadia's story. But she did have one thing – something which she didn't feel held much weight in the first place.

“The Greybeards told me to trust my instincts,” she said. “And as much as I prefer concrete facts and reasoning over a gut reaction, my instincts are almost always right. So I'm going to follow them in this instance. I've got no facts to go off of, and no way to really gather them in a timely manner.”

Erich nodded quietly next to her.

“Do you get that?” she asked. “I mean, you seem to have a bit of an instinctual side. That is, if you don't just know stuff by default.”

He drew in a breath and looked up the path toward the horizon. “So, you want to know my nature,” he mused.

Well, when he put it that way, she wasn't so sure she ought to have asked the question. How could she even fathom the nature of the Daedra Lords?

It was a foolish question, really. She wanted to know if he felt the same way, where she simply knew certain things on feeling alone.

Mehra watched as Erich kept his eyes on the horizon. He appeared lost in thought, as if he seriously considered her question. Finally, he turned toward her and gave her a nod.

“I'd like to relax, if you don't mind,” Erich said.

“Um, sure.”

Erich summoned a cane in a strange bound spell. As soon as it materialized in his hand, the green glimmering light of an illusion spell breaking surrounded him. The spell disappeared quickly, revealing him for what he really was:

A God.

The outfit of tight breeches, buckled shoes, ruffled sleeves, fitted vest, long-tailed overcoat, and braided hair tied off with a large, purple bow was strange, yes. In fact, she'd never seen an outfit so flamboyant, rich, and unique before in her life.

It was much more than that. It was his aura: powerful, wild, and awe-inspiring.

She met Azura before in person. This feeling was familiar, but yet very different. Azura was a comforting presence.

Sheogorath was not. He triggered in her the primal urge to cower – whether in fear or worship, she couldn't say.

He retained the features of Erich; his hair, body, facial structure, and, to some extent, the color of his eyes. But the light and energy that he emanated was clearly not of the mortal plane.

“Oh,” she sighed. “You're so – I can't describe it.”

He smiled and fussed with his cane, the many jeweled rings he wore glittering in the sunlight. “You've seen Azura with your own eyes, though. And she is famed for her beauty.”

“Have you met her?” Mehra asked.

“Not yet, no,” he admitted. “I hope to. At least, I think I hope to.”

Mehra looked down at the ground and kicked at a fluffy, white dandelion in the middle of the road, scattering its seeds on the wind. How could she even begin to describe Azura? She could barely comprehend Sheogorath in front of her.

“She is beautiful beyond anything I have ever seen,” Mehra admitted. “But I saw her and figured, well, that she was my mother, of a sort. Definitely not in a physical sense, but she had a hand in creating me and stuffing Nerevar's soul inside. I – I think I have her nose. At least, I know I have her skin color. But I'm definitely all mortal.”

He gave her a quick once-over and nodded. “There's not a drop of daedra in you,” he confirmed. “She definitely manipulated something. Were you grown in a garden? Brewed up? A product of passion? It's a mystery that I don't even know, and I know many mysteries.”

Mehra pursed her lips. Did Azura select traits from herself that she wanted to give to her? Was it vain to think such a thing? Then again, Azura was known, to a lesser extent, as a goddess of vanity. Why wouldn't she make a little version of herself?

What if Mehra was just a 'thing'?

She shook her head and sighed. No, Azura cared for her. She had the ring. She had the gift of agelessness and the inability to catch any disease. She had a tall, strong body, and an affinity for magic.

“As for your question on my instincts,” he said. “It's hard to describe. I do have what you could refer to as 'instincts'. All of the immortals do, to some degree. But I don't know if I can properly explain it.”

“I – I,” she stammered, “yeah.”

He turned to walk backward in front of her, keeping his eyes on hers. “You see me now though, yeah?” he asked. “I'm not quite the guy who lit himself on fire trying to cast spells anymore. I'm a strange sort of spirit now. I doubt the others could even explain me. I can't even explain me.”

A thought occurred to her as she took him in – gold, glittering, and vibrant as he was; a thought which hadn't occurred to her before.

“Do you mind me calling you Erich?” she asked.

His face softened. “I'm not Erich anymore,” he admitted. “But it is a sweet sentiment, and I'll admit to sentiment from time to time. I may even call myself Erich sometimes, now that you've re-awoken the memory of it. So, go ahead; I don't mind. The world would be duller without it.”

“That's very kind of you,” Mehra smiled.

“Or is it?” he replied.

She pursed her lips, earning a sly smile from him. Erich – Sheogorath – turned around and slowed down to keep pace with her, twirling his cane in his clawed hand.

“Mind games?” Mehra drawled. “I'm fully aware that it is both torture and pleasure. I experience it every time I see you.”

He let out a low whistle. “And that's why I like you calling me Erich. It hurts us both so sweetly.”

“I'd appreciate you not getting sexy with me just for a bit,” she grumbled. “Really.”

“Does it bother you?” he asked.

Mehra scowled. “I want you. I want you and you're extremely dangerous. Alright? Now, shut up.”

She immediately clamped her hands over her mouth. Dumb idiot. What made her think she could get away with back-talking Sheogorath?

He burst out in laughter. “Well, I want you and I'm extremely dangerous, so there is that. Please: never change. I love a fiery woman. Anyway, I propose a change of subject, yes?”

Mehra sighed and nodded. Slowly, she took in his appearance again, nearly tripping over a dip in the road at the distracting amount of gold, purple, and green that was Sheogorath in front of her.

She watched as he moved his hand up to tuck an errant strand of hair behind his ear. Her eyes followed the movement of his fingers, and the talons on them.

At least, she supposed they were claws. She gestured toward his hands.

“Those,” Mehra said. “Please, tell me about them. They can't be just pointy nails.”

He held his hand out so she could closer examine his claws. They didn't look out of the ordinary, save their length and shape. But like most things with him, the appearance was likely deceiving.

“Harder than diamonds,” he chirped. “Sharper than the pointiest pointy pencil. I quite like them; good for torture and opening things. Not good for delicate operations. Needlepoint? Forget it.”

Mehra let go of his hand and chuckled. “Needlepoint?”

“Indeed!” Erich replied. “It's an art, right? There's nothing better than sewing a blasphemous word into fabric. I've been gifted with some rather charming ones. The mortals give me all sorts of trinkets.”

“I suppose those don't have much value to you,” she said.

He shook his head, his long, braided hair swinging behind his back. “But it's sweet to get them. They take their time to make something for me. Making something for one of us is an act of worship, in a way.”

Mehra nodded, her eyes traveling down to the intricate sword strapped to his side. Disturbingly, its tassels were made of hair, and she didn't really want to know its origin.  
  
“So, walking. Kind of boring,” Erich mumbled. “How about we take care of this Kematu business, and then discuss what to do afterward?”

Mehra shrugged. “Works for me.”

Erich motioned toward the wilderness in front of them. With his cane, he drew a box in the air and outlined a door, the same as he did when they escaped the Thalmor Embassy to drop Malborn off in Kynesgrove.

Mehra peered through the portal and smiled at the sight of the entrance to a cave – Swindler's Den – beyond.

“Well, you sure know how to treat a lady,” she chuckled.

Erich placed his hand on her back, ushering her through the shortcut. “I do my best.”

Mehra stepped through the portal with Erich close behind her. As soon as he passed through the doorway, it disappeared entirely, and along with it, his 'gentleman with a cane' appearance.

She peered at Erich's outdated woodsman style outfit and his now human facade and pursed her lips. Even though he hid himself perfectly, the image of him as he truly was seared itself into her mind. Mehra hoped that she wouldn't underestimate him ever again, but being lulled into a state of trust was exactly how Sheogorath was reported to operate.

Erich stopped in front of the entrance to the cave. “Whatever you're thinking about,” he grumbled, “well, whatever it is, you're over-thinking it. I can taste your anxiety in the air.”

“I'll try not to,” she replied.

He turned and drew her in for a strong hug. “It's like you're trying to find a way to make yourself old.”

She curled in on him, burying her face against his chest. His smell wasn't quite as she remembered it, but the cloying scent of orchids mixed well with what she found familiar.

It didn't feel like home anymore, but being in his arms still felt nice.

“I'll take care of this, if you don't feel like doing anything,” Erich said. He motioned toward the cave in front of them.

Mehra turned in his arms and cast a life detect spell. Offhand, she saw two dozen or so mercenaries scattered throughout the cave– not enough that she'd have trouble, but enough that the whole thing could get tedious.

“If it doesn't bother you,” she mumbled, “then I'd like to take you up on that. That whole thing with the Silver Hand and Kodlak has me tired.”

He wrapped his arms around her again and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “No problem. It's a good exercise for me; gets the some of the demented bits out.”

Pursing his lips, Erich stepped around to stop in front of her, his hands prepared to cast a spell. He brought them in front of her, and in a flash of light, cast the strongest ward she'd ever seen.

“In case of arrows or flying daggers,” he explained.

“Thanks,” Mehra replied, following him into the split in the large rock in front of them.

The spell was wholly unnecessary, but then again, him taking care of the mercenaries stationed here was as well. If nothing else, it was a testament to the fact that he really meant that he'd deal with it.

Erich crept downward into the cave, flexing the claws on his left hand. Unable to see past him, Mehra crouched and stepped forward as quietly as she could. A light flickered from the cavern in front of them and haloed Erich in front of her, illuminating the short, fine hairs that stuck up around the crown of his head.

“Stop right there!”

Erich stopped in front of her at the sound of a mercenary's voice. She heard the sound of blades being drawn and a few men mumbling.

“Are you a hunter or something?” the man asked.

Erich clenched his hand into a fist, his knuckles popping.

“Both,” he replied.

“You – what?” the man said. “Well, you're on your last trip. You shouldn't have come here.”

An arrow struck Erich in the shoulder and Mehra quickly backed up. Swearing, she watched as Erich charged forward with his claws ready. Screams and a horrifying series of wet thuds were thankfully all she witnessed of the fight, with the tunnel so short and narrow in front of her. When the sounds were over, Mehra picked her way down the sloped entrance to the cave below.

She peered around to see three bloody smears across the base of the cavern, a sharp contrast to the cheery campsite of a small wooden table and chairs circled near a roaring fire. Peering up from her surroundings, Mehra watched as Erich stretched his arms, the arrow still firmly embedded into the joint of his shoulder.

Mehra stepped forward and directed him into a nearby chair. Frowning, she leaned over to examine the wound, even as Erich chuckled.

“Oh that's in deep,” she murmured, wincing as she grabbed hold of the arrow.

“Feels like a thorn,” Erich replied, “less than a thorn, actually. Don't worry about it.”

“But that still can't be comfortable,” Mehra insisted.

He peered up at her and smiled. “Of course. Please remove it, darling.”

Voices and footsteps echoed up from the cave below, the flicker of a torch growing gradually nearer. Erich sighed and stood.

“Later. Now's murder time,” he murmured, before leaning in for a quick kiss.

He bounded off through the cavern, disappearing down the path on the far side of the cave.

Mehra sighed and trailed behind him. The sounds of screams, spells, and gods-knew what else echoed through the cavern, making her slow down. She knew what he was doing; she didn't have to see it on top of that.

Unhurried, Mehra wandered through the tunnel of the cavern in front of her and made her way through inter-connecting areas of the hideout. It seemed as if the operation here was much larger than she'd initially assumed; there were many campfires, dozens of bedrolls, crates upon crates of supplies and rations, and many fresh corpses in varying states of mutilation.

Yet more screaming welled up from the cavern below, as well as the sound of thunder:

Finger of the Mountain. Mehra shivered at the mere thought of a god casting that spell.

She felt a bit guilty for inflicting Erich on them, but really, her Thu'um was starting to cause a similar amount of terror in her opponents.

Mehra coughed as she entered the next area. It seemed as if Erich decided to get more creative, here. Or, at least, he didn't like these people to have their limbs still attached. Mehra looked for the exit, not wanting to take a closer look at what Erich did to the mercenaries.

Quickly, she took the tunnel to the far left of the room. The path wound past a small alcove with a lantern, then upward into another small cavern. It appeared to be used as a bunk area, with a dozen or so bedrolls tossed the ground. Tables with chipped earthenware on them lined the walls, as a crackling fire at the left of the room roasted fish on spits.

At the far end of the room lay a smeared, bloodied bedroll stuck to the wall.

She passed by the bedrolls and chests lining the walls. In a strange way, it didn't feel right to take from these people, even though they were dead and couldn't use the money. If she took things from this place, she was a grave robber at best.

Mehra gasped as she entered the next area of the cave. Jagged scorch marks in the pattern of lightning lined the floor, walls, and ceiling of the cavern. Whatever was once here was all turned to ash; she couldn't make anything out of the remains, except the occasional piece of molten metal that marked where a weapon once stood.

There was something about the impersonal nature of the ash piled throughout the area that made her linger there for longer than necessary. The amount of power he had to have released in order to turn everything to ash and melt metal was incredible.

Jyggalag must have been desperate to break free of his curse. Giving godhood and such power to a mortal was a foolish notion, at best.

She took one last look at the ash-filled room and entered the tunnel on the right side of the cavern. Up ahead, she heard the sound of a waterfall. The tunnel wound sharply to the right, then disappeared below a pool of water.

Mehra frowned and cast a water-walking spell. If she hunched over, there'd be enough room for her to walk out into the cavern in front of her.

She crept forward on top of the water and emerged into the cavern. To her left was a water-filled dead end and to the right was a small waterfall that veiled the cavern beyond. A familiar, hulking shadow waited for her before the waterfall, a devilish grin on his face.

Well, at least the smile fit him.

Mehra tiptoed across the water toward Erich. He stood on the surface of the water as well, the arrow he'd been shot with earlier conspicuously absent. It was the first time she'd ever seen him successfully cast a water-walking spell, though he claimed to have used them before – unintentionally.

Erich pointed up at the wooden supports of a bridge above the waterfall and mouthed the word 'Kematu'. Smiling, he purposefully stomped into the water below to draw their attention.

“Alik'r hold!” a voice shouted. “You've proven your strength, warriors. Let's prevent any more bloodshed. Come out from the waterfall; let us talk.”

Mehra glanced at Erich's glowing feet and narrowed her eyes as she took in his completely dry state. If she had to crouch in order to get out there without getting wet, then –

“How'd you get out here without getting wet, anyway?” she whispered.

“I poofed,” he replied.

“You poofed?”

Erich nodded as if it were the most natural thing in the world. What in Tamriel was 'poofing'?

“Please, come out,” the man called. “I have a proposition. I think we can mutually benefit from this.”

Mehra peered beyond the waterfall and sighed. She'd have to wait for an explanation.

Erich reached forward, grabbed her hand, and led her toward the water. With a small gesture of his hand, the water parted for them to pass through. Together, they stepped across the water and stopped on the other side of the waterfall.

Up above, a large, scarred Redguard stood, his arms crossed in front of his chest. Offhand, Mehra counted at least a dozen Alik'r warriors surrounding him, with possibly more behind.

Mehra pursed her lips. They looked tough, yes, but they didn't impress her in the least. Not much did on the way of fighters, these days.

“You must be Kematu,” Mehra said.

The leader smirked at the sound of his name. “If you know me,” he replied, “then it is no secret as to why you are both here. With the amount of screaming and spells I've heard above – well, you've earned a bit of my respect. I'm surprised there are only two of you. You've proven your skill in combat.”

“We've got nothing to prove,” Erich chuckled.

Kematu nodded. “Of course,” he said. “You're both exemplary for your people, as am I. And of course, I know that the Dunmer and Nords have no love of the Aldmeri Dominion. This is why I'd like you to hear me out.”

Mehra narrowed her eyes at Kematu and his obvious attempt to manipulate them.

“Go ahead, assassin,” she said.

Erich sighed and fidgeted next to her. He clearly didn't care what the man had to say.

“Assassin?” Kematu chuckled. “No, we are nothing so crass. Saadia, the woman who sent you here, betrayed Hammerfell to the Aldmeri Dominion. Were it not for her, Taneth would have held. The resistance is alive and well in Hammerfell, and we were sent here to find her and bring her back to Hammerfell to answer for her crimes. You can help us with this.”

Frowning, Erich leaned over and nudged Mehra with his elbow. “Did you hear that?” he grumbled. “Guy called us crass.”

“So you two are assassins?” Kematu asked.

Mehra waved Erich away. “Retired,” she replied. “Now, a question for you: if she were aligned with the Aldmeri Dominion, then why didn't she run south to them? Why hasn't she sought refuge at the Thalmor Embassy here?”

Kematu shook his head and sighed.

“You know the answer to those questions, Kematu,” Mehra frowned. “I haven't been involved in politics in over two hundred years since I united Morrowind against Dagoth Ur, but I'm no fool. Neither is Cyrodiil's Champion, here.”

“Well, that's a shame,” he said. “And I am no fool, either; you are good warriors to get past that many people, but you're certainly no heroes. I'm afraid we're going to have to kill you. It's just business.”

Erich stepped forward, pushed Mehra behind his back, and swayed on his feet.  
  
“Ah!” he laughed. “See, there's where you're wrong. You're not going to hurt us. You're going to do my bidding.”

That accent. She heard it before, back when he killed people in the Thalmor Embassy.

Erich took a turn for worse.

Kematu winced and clutched at his head. “What,” he coughed, “What would my Master desire of us?”

Mehra backed away in horror. Still, Erich swayed on his feet, in some sort of mesmerizing dance.

“I don't care!” he scowled. “Go drown yourselves, for all I care!”

Kematu winced, nodded, and hopped off the ledge, motioning for his men to follow. Disturbingly, they made their way across the ledge toward the stream.

Mehra swallowed the lump in her throat and shuffled over to Sheogorath. Putting on her best meek face – which wasn't difficult, given the circumstances – she gently tugged on his arm.

“Great Lord,” she mumbled. “Are you alright?”

He wheeled around and stared at her, his brows furrowed.

Shit. He was coming for her, wasn't he? Azura certainly did warn her.

“Does it upset you?” he asked, motioning toward the men who knelt by the water.

She watched in horror as the lot of them lay down face-first into the water. Gods! They really were drowning themselves at his behest!

Mehra couldn't find the words to answer.

His face softened. “Ah, but you think they're bad guys, right?” he asked. At least his voice sounded normal, again.

She nodded quietly. Her instincts told her so.

“You would have had to kill them, right?”

Mehra nodded again.

“So I'm taking care of it for you,” he said. “You're so busy, lately. It's a favor, dear. Is the pain of drowning any worse than the sword? The spell? The Voice?”

She pursed her lips and shrugged.

Erich leaned over, planting a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Truthfully, I wouldn't know either,” he admitted. “I've only died once – briefly. And I'm sure you remember it in part, in your dreams, yes?”

Mehra shuddered and he drew her into his arms. She remembered death – Nerevar's death – when she dreamed at night. The vision came to her often in her childhood, and returned again when she moved to Morrowind.

“So we can at least agree that the sword is a bad way to go,” he concluded. “I have heard that drowning isn't as terrible. The best may be of cold. But regardless, now that they've seen the Dragonborn claim to be the Nerevarine and her companion the Champion, they've got to go – fugitive or no.”

“Of course, yes,” she murmured. “I wouldn't have name-dropped if I wasn't certain.”

Erich wrapped his arm around her and led her toward the entrance of the cave. “You seem sensitive about killing, now.”

“In comparison to the time I've lived,” Mehra said, “and in comparison to the time I have the potential to live, it feels wasteful to kill young people unless there's a need for it. Think of all the tomorrows those men will never have.”

“So you rid them of their tomorrows so that Saadia can have hers,” Erich said. “Well, at least, that is how I viewed it when I killed people.”

She nodded in agreement, though her heart didn't fully agree.

As they walked back through the cave together, Erich's arm remained wrapped around her waist. The cramped tunnel they walked through barely fit the two of them side by side, but it seemed as if Erich were determined to not let her go. Eventually, the passage looped around to overlook the first cavern.

Erich glanced over at the bodies of the mercenaries he killed earlier. “You know,” he mumbled, “you've given me something to think about. Tomorrows: they're important.”

Mehra opened her mouth to reply, a yelp replacing words as he swept her off her feet to carry her toward the ledge. Erich hopped over the side of the rock with her in his arms and gently lowered her to the ground once they landed. Still, he kept his arm wrapped around her waist, as if she'd disappear at any second.

“What's this all about?” Mehra asked.

Erich stopped and leaned over to give her a kiss.

“Thinking about what to do with the rest of today,” he replied.

“We should tell Saadia that she's safe,” Mehra said. “She deserves that much.”

He didn't say anything in reply to that, and instead, tugged her toward the entrance of the cave. They stepped out into the bright orange light of the fading afternoon sun. Impatient, Erich let go of her waist, summoned his cane, and began to draw another portal in the empty space in front of them.

“I feel most passionate now,” he said. “Now that you've seen me. I want – I want to try, whatever it ends up being. Please, don't get scared of me tonight. I want you.”

Oh.

Mehra glanced from the portal to Erich, who still wore a human disguise. She wasn't scared – at least, not at the moment.

“I want to try, too,” she said.

Erich backed her into the rock behind them with a brutal kiss. Grabbing her hips, he hauled her up to wrap her legs around his hips, his lips trailing down her neck.

Mehra blinked and took a deep breath. “Not here,” she panted, “there are probably ticks everywhere. At home, please. And Saadia first; poor thing is probably getting an ulcer waiting for us.”

He sighed in exasperation, let go, and motioned toward the portal he left open. “Why are you such an old person?” Erich grumbled. “It's all 'responsibility this; responsibility, that'.”

“And you're a baby god,” Mehra laughed.

Erich rolled his eyes and stomped his feet for extra measure. Still, he couldn't stop his smile nor his laughter.

They stepped through the portal and made their way up the road to Whiterun, stumbling along as he stopped to kiss her every so often. It was almost as old times, except–

They couldn't fool themselves; they were intrinsically incompatible at the core, now more than ever. Still, a bit of fun kept her mind from the idea that she – and the entirety of the world – was likely to perish to Alduin.

Erich stopped his displays of affection and dropped his hand from her side the moment they had visual distance to Whiterun. While she certainly wasn't ashamed of him, Mehra appreciated the fact that he knew she had a reputation to uphold, nor did she want to deal with questions.

They arrived at the city just as the guard prepared to shut down the gate for the night, and the last direct rays of the sun disappeared over the horizon. Mehra found herself grateful that the crowd of people going home for the night parted for her by her reputation as a Companion. The walk through the city was quick, and soon, they found themselves peering into the packed tavern once again.

Saadia stood behind the bar with the owner of the tavern, filling mugs of ale from the tap and placing them on a serving tray. Every few seconds, she looked up from her work to check her surroundings.

Mehra caught Saadia's eye across the crowd of patrons and gave her a nod. With wide eyes, the fugitive excused herself from the bar and made her way over to them as quickly as possible.

“Just got done testing that dagger,” Mehra said. “It's better than it looks. Cuts well, and has good balance.”

“Should I sell it, then?” Saadia asked.

“It's always good to be armed,” she shrugged. “But I highly doubt anyone would come after you. Who would want to bother someone working at a tavern?”

Saadia breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you for that. I wouldn't have been able to do anything without your help.”

“No problem. Stay safe.”

With that, Saadia returned to her work, leaving Mehra and Erich alone. Now that it was out of the way, she supposed there was nothing left but to –

Mehra's heart raced as she tugged on his arm to lead him out of the tavern. Erich was quick to entwine his fingers in hers while they descended the tavern stairs. Again, the crowd parted for them as they walked through the street toward her home, and if anyone stopped to look at her holding hands with the man she'd brought into the city, Mehra couldn't say.

She stopped in front of Breezehome and brought her trembling hand to the doorknob. She shouldn't be doing this with a Daedra Lord, least of all Sheogorath. He had a reputation for snapping. He had a reputation for gutting mortals and tearing off their limbs. But he also inspired poetry, song, and art, and from the way he spoke to her, he seemed confident enough that he felt calm enough to attempt something with her.

Shouting broke her out of her thoughts. Mehra glanced down the street and watched a group of guards run toward the Temple district in a panic. Petty theft? Someone attempting to steal the tithe?

Mehra felt terrible for not caring, but as long as Erich held her hand like he did, and as the taste of his lips lingered on her tongue–

Gods.

She'd give him five minutes, at least.

He had her so pent up that she was certain that was all the time she'd need.

 

* * *

  
  


Everything was set up. Divining a way to peer out into the mortal realm wasn't easy, but now that his power was stronger, Miraak was quite certain that this time, he'd see everything he wanted to see as if it were happening in front of him.

He projected his mind toward the standing stone at the edge of the Skaal village and concentrated. Slowly, in the wall of murky acid in front of him, figures took shape. The bile of Apocrypha cleared into a looking glass and he sucked in a breath as saw them for the first time in over ten thousand years:

Atmorans – his kind.

They were as strong and hearty as he remembered them, but unexpectedly taller. Perhaps, the move from Atmora to permanently settle on the more temperate continent below produced larger specimens. Hm. He'd be a short King, then, but it was no matter: Miraak was an exemplary fighter, and more importantly, he was Dragonborn.

Their armor and manner of dress hadn't changed much at all, but he expected it, after a fashion. After all, the Atmorans – Nords, he corrected – were a people of habit, especially the Skaal.

They worked on his project outside the stone, doing their best to keep up with the specifications he communicated to them from his mind. Satisfied that they were doing their jobs, he traveled across the island toward the stone at Raven Rock.

He'd never seen a Dunmer before. This would be most exciting. Miraak remembered the Velothi people; golden, beautiful, and half-naked as they were. And the daedra worshipping dissident tribe wore even less than their cultured counterparts.

He connected to the Earth Stone and backed up in shock. He'd read that the now-Dunmer had red eyes, but he didn't realize that they were –

Completely red. Even the pupils of their eyes were tinged dark red.

Miraak blinked and looked closer. No, there were a few with black pupils.

Still, they looked more daedra than mer. But they were lovely, in their own way. They were much smaller than their ancestors, the tallest among them reaching the height of his shoulder. And the women seemed especially tiny.

Their hair color seemed to stay the same: various shades of black, gray, brown, and an occasional mer with naturally white or red hair. Most of the males opted to be clean-shaven; likely, they couldn't grow a beard worth looking at, like most mer. But, perhaps, beards didn't have cultural significance to the Dunmer as they did to the Nords.

Miraak crossed his arms and nodded to himself. Yes, they definitely grew on him, now that he'd seen them. He'd subjugate them rather than killing them off. A harem of their daintiest women would do nicely.

Now, there was another matter of business:

He had to see this wizard he proposed an alliance with. If he was unimpressed with him – as he suspected he might be – then Miraak would sever ties and focus on quickly taking him out of the picture.

Miraak traveled back through the fascinating harbor town and took the road east, staring in disbelief at the ash and ruin on the coast of the once-beautiful island. Solstheim was cold, yes, but many years ago, it was a wilderness teeming with life. It was one thing to know what happened, but it was an entirely different matter to see it with his own eyes.

The landscape turned even more alien as he traveled further east. Strange, huge mushrooms dotted the ground, until a massive one on the coast came into view.

Magical lanterns dotted the cluster of mushrooms in the distance, and as he approached them, he realized with a start that they had doors and windows. This was the wizard's tower.

He'd never seen anything quite like it. Curious, he projected himself forward and through the front door.

The sight of a glowing levitation portal greeted him at the entrance. Grateful that he wasn't bound to the physical plane, the invisible Miraak traveled upward as he pleased, avoiding activating the portal.

As he traveled upward, he heard the wizard's voice at the top. Neloth sounded even more elderly in person, a fact that eased his mind somewhat. If he was old, then he could –

Miraak stopped at the top and frowned at what he saw. He greatly underestimated this man. This trip was proving more valuable with each second he spent looking at the outside world.

Neloth was tall and lean, and the magical power he felt from the wizard was beyond anything he'd witnessed before. He severely underestimated this man and regretted ever contacting him.

It would be impossible to take Neloth by surprise, now. But, perhaps, he could find the Elder Scroll and betray him when he handed it over. Or, he could lay in wait for Neloth to look at the scroll, temporarily blinding himself, and take that very moment to kill him.

Miraak watched as Neloth hunched over his book and rubbed his charcoal beard in thought. It was an impressive beard, really, especially for a mer.

The scar that the beard hid was not lost on him; the wizard survived having his throat slit, at one point. And the ebony dagger at his side –

An old wizard such as this one wouldn't carry a weapon he didn't know how to use. While Miraak didn't expect him to be highly skilled in armed combat, he didn't expect the slim noble to be a slouch, either.

This was dangerous: very, very dangerous. His arrogance with Neloth could have been his undoing.

Frustrated that he'd have to come up with a new plan, Miraak backed out of the tower. There was one place left to check, and then, he'd be done for a while so as to not attract Hermaeus Mora's suspicion.

He had to look at the last Dragonborn so that he could size up his ultimate opponent. He'd been a bit lax in digging up information on him, but gathering up enough strength on Solstheim was much more important than keeping an eye on the upstart.

His thu'um was stronger than the young one's. There was no doubt in his mind.

Miraak followed the call of the dragon's blood southwest of Solstheim, through the beautiful wilds of Skyrim. He felt it strongest in the wooden city on the river and sighed in longing as he traveled the streets and took in the achievements of his people. Though it was night, the city teemed with life.

The dragon blood led him through the city until he stopped in front of a small, wooden house in the middle of the city.

This was it. This was the Dragonborn's home.

With his heart racing, Miraak stepped through the front door and peered around at the underwhelming place. Herbs dried in the back of the cottage, the kitchen table at the back of the room covered in scattered papers and books. In the middle of the room, a hearth glowed down to embers, casting long shadows around the small living area.

“Oh, Erich.”

His eyes widened. That sounded like –

“Oh! Erich! Ah!”

He should leave. Really.

A chair shifted on the floor above. Entranced, Miraak climbed the stairs at the far end of the room. He hadn't heard anything like it in thousands of years.

“Oh, please!” the woman begged.

“Shhh, I know,” a man replied. “I know.”

He topped the stairs, his heart racing so loudly that he heard it in his ears.

“Erich, please,” she whimpered. “I want–”

“I can't,” the man replied, his voice rough.

Miraak rounded the corner and swore. Well, it was their fault they left the bedroom door open.

A naked daedra woman – Dunmer? – sat in a massive Nord's lap, her back to his chest, legs spread wide and hooked over his thick thighs as he gently worked her with his huge hands. She cried out again, her hands gripping handfuls of the man's tight leather pants.

W-why was he here again?

Dragonborn. It was–

The woman: she was the Dragonborn he was looking for. Shockingly, it wasn't the descendant of Atmoran stock; it was the elf woman. Miraak wasn't sure what to think of it. He'd never heard of an elven dragonborn.

The man's white hair spilled over the front of his shoulder as he leaned down to leave a trail of kisses down her neck to her collar. Squirming, she scrambled on his lap, her left hand coming tantalizingly close to the obscenely large bulge against the man's thigh.

“I didn't know you were into this, Miraak.”

He jumped at the sound of Hermaeus Mora's voice.

“You're watching like an animal,” the daedra chuckled. “Do you know who these people are?”

Miraak blinked behind his mask, his face heating up in shame.

“I suspect you do not,” Mora continued. “This is Erich Heartfire. He read my Oghma Infinium some two-hundred years ago. Looks to be in excellent condition; he's a clever one and I can't say I'm surprised he's managed to be around for so long.”

“And this –”

Hermaeus Mora paused and hummed to himself.

“This is Little Azura,” he chuckled. “Looks so much like her mother. So beautiful.”

A riddle. It figured, really. What did Azura have to do with a Dragonborn? He wasn't entirely sure.

The woman writhed in place, practically screaming as her orgasm hit her. Miraak's foolish side wished that Mora had come along a few seconds later; the moment was ruined with him there.

Hermaeus Mora narrowed his eyes. “I don't know about these two together,” he admitted. “Could be dangerous. I should talk to my sister about what she thinks.”

Mephala, his sister. They were a dangerous combination when they convened about something.

He watched as the woman stood on shaking legs and turned toward the man – Erich; he didn't like knowing about him, to be honest. She motioned toward the front of his pants and mumbled something quietly to him. Erich put his head in his hands, sighing deeply.

"If it doesn't work out,” he murmured, “I'm leaving immediately. I don't want to hurt you.”

That was strange. What did he mean by –?

Miraak watched as she knelt, then tugged his pants down past his hips and recoiled in shock. The man was lucky to get any woman wanting to sit on that massive thing.

Apparently, she wasn't prepared for the sight either, but the woman gathered herself quickly and wrapped her hands around him, earning a hissing moan.

“As much as this new information is fascinating,” Hermaeus Mora interjected, “I don't think I want–”

An unearthly growl made the daedra stop and whirl around to stare at the couple with narrowed eyes.

The woman shrank back as her partner hunched forward and panted like a beast. Miraak never heard anything like it before.

Something was obviously off with this man.

Werewolf, perhaps? Maybe beastblood made him unpredictable.

Erich clenched his fists and sighed deeply. He mumbled a quick apology before casting a hasty recall spell, disappearing without a trace.

“I'm sorry, too. Maybe someday it'll work out,” the woman mumbled, staring at the empty space he once occupied. The sorrow in her voice was palpable, and for the first time in a long time, Miraak felt like a wretch.

Hermaeus Mora waved a tentacle in the air, shattering the illusion.

Miraak was back in Apocrypha again, alone and terribly, uncomfortably aroused.

The Daedra Lord motioned toward the broken looking glass. “I do not want you looking at such filth again,” he hissed.

He forced himself to kneel and scowled. He was not a child!

“You seemed to find it amusing until that man disappeared,” Miraak quipped. “Where did he go? And, what is he?”

Hermaeus Mora narrowed his eyes then turned away. “Mephala!” he shouted, “Mephala! I need answers, now!”

He disappeared without explanation, leaving Miraak alone once again.

Sighing in frustration, Miraak turned toward the shattered looking glass. The world outside continued on as it had without him: people built settlements, studied magic, built wonders, and made love as they always had.

He pounded his fist into the cold ground, shouting at the top of his lungs. It wasn't fair! He wanted out! He missed the ocean, the feeling of the wind, the warmth of the sun, the satisfaction of eating, the pleasure of a woman.

That damned last Dragonborn! Did she even understand what she had? How many times had she taken the sunset for granted? Or eating? Or –

The man she clearly had greed for, whom obviously, for one reason or another, couldn't have her the way she wanted it?

Did she expect everyone to cater to her whims? Was it because she was Dragonborn?

Miraak clenched his fists and shook with rage. He was the First. He deserved these things. She did not.

He'd take them all away from her, until she had nothing left.

Then, Miraak would be free.

 


	29. Chapter 29

A/n: I don't know when, but a little fic called Heartfire is coming.

Hype.

 

* * *

 

_You woke today with a new sense of purpose. You're no longer afraid of failure. Failure is just an opportunity to learn something new._

 

* * *

  
Who was that mortal? Miraak was an old name – a dragon name. It meant that Hermaeus Mora had a very old mortal in his boring, repetitive excuse of a realm that he liked to call a 'garden'.

He felt terrible that the guy saw Mehra – all of her. But, he knew an astral projection when he saw one; Miraak wasn't really there, and Mehra certainly hadn't seen him nor felt his presence.

So, hopefully, the whole thing was a fluke. Erich imagined that the guy was so lonely that he wanted to just look out on the world. It wasn't relevant to Mehra, so he didn't see the point in upsetting her with the news that they'd been watched. Though he certainly wouldn't tell her what happened, he'd have to check in with Mehra more often to make sure this Miraak character wasn't messing with her.

That was, if he could get up the nerve to visit again after humiliating himself.

Sighing, he stared down at a pond in one of his many gardens and watched as the fat, centuries-old fish lazed about near the stony bottom. The blossoming trees encircling the pond shed their petals into the water beneath them, dotting the pond's surface in a blanket of white, pink, and purple.

Sheogorath felt nothing from the sight of it, save the howling void of despair.

“You wear purple and black today, Lord.”

He lifted his eyes from the pond to stare at Vivec. It looked horrible, didn't it?

Vivec kept his head low and approached slowly. Sheogorath fought the urge to frown. The mortal was terrified of him; he was a monster, really.

“It's handsome,” Vivec said.

Handsome, yes. That was all he was good for, after all. Even if he were handsome, he certainly failed at sex. And somehow, Hermaeus Mora's pet mortal decided to spy on him – to bear witness to his failure.

“You're silent, Lord,” Vivec observed. “Is this melancholy?”

Ugh. Yes.

Sheogorath turned away from the mortal and stared into the water of the pond once again. On the still surface of the water, he caught sight of his reflection – black, purple, and white.

White hair. He had white hair from a centuries-old failure and still bore the scars of it on his skin.

Idiot.

He shouldn't have gotten out of bed that morning.

“I see. Well, I do understand melancholy. You appear very sharp today, Lord. Lucid, even. I presume this is also part of your nature; the ills of the mind of all kinds.”

“I'm a failure.”

There. He gave voice to it.

Vivec crouched and crawled his way over to him. He knelt in front of Sheogorath's legs.

“You're a god, Lord,” Vivec replied. “A permanent one.”

“I failed at something I used to be very good at,” he mumbled.

“And that is?”

“Sex.”

He knew exactly where it went wrong. Due to being used to being cut off in the past, he got much too excited. When they first met, Mehra took favors from him – his hands and his mouth – and never reciprocated. And while this certainly was her prerogative to say what she wanted when she wanted it, he was foolish enough to hang on the hope that she'd eventually do likewise.

She did – two hundred years later. He couldn't handle it, not when his mind screamed at him to flip her over, clamp down with his fangs, and have her as he always desired.

Maybe, eventually it could happen, but he had his doubts. It seemed that in this instance, Mania and Dementia conspired as one against him. Even his little bit of fun with the pilgrims, the Gildergreen, and slaying Kematu's lackeys hadn't silenced his demented side enough.

And, again, Hermaeus Mora and his specially gardened mortal were party to his failings. Shocking, though, was the fact that Mora didn't know who he was. Wasn't Hermaeus Mora the knower of all things forbidden? The curse he uttered – some crude oath on the House of Dementia – ought to have clued him in.

Was Sheogorath that insignificant to him?

A pair of hands slithering up his thighs brought him back to reality.

“I've had nothing but positive experiences with you,” Vivec said. “So I find that odd. Shall I lift your mood with a favor then, Lord?”

A favor? What did he mean by –

Oh. Well, he did have his hands on him. He gave him such a sly look and his devious little hands traced circles on his thighs, crawling upward and inward.

Sheogorath sighed. “I'm in no mood for such things.”

The hands disappeared immediately. “Alright, then. May I groom your hair, Lord?” Vivec asked.

Sheogorath shrugged. He hadn't brushed it that day. Hadn't done much of anything that day, to be honest. Getting out of bed after failing so miserably with Mehra was enough of a feat. He supposed he ought to congratulate himself for being able to get up and sit by the pond.

Vivec stood, planting a hasty kiss to the underside of his jaw. Quickly, he moved to stand behind him. The mortal's hands were soothing as he picked up Sheogorath's rat's nest of hair and began to gently detangle it with his fingers.

He honestly didn't know why Mehra didn't like this guy; when she talked about him in the Third Era, she spoke of an arrogant, slimy demigod. Then again, his time as Molag Bal's captive may have changed him for the better. Her description certainly wasn't accurate anymore. Perhaps, she'd even like him now, and she wasn't the only one who changed.

She liked Neloth, after all. And Neloth wasn't known for being nice.

“She's better off without me,” Sheogorath sighed.

The hands in his hair stopped for the briefest of seconds before continuing.

“What manner of being is 'she'?” Vivec asked.

Erich sighed deeply. She was unlike any other. She walked a strange line between mortal and immortal, but at the core of it, she was still very capable of dying.

“Mortal woman.”

“Then your angst is quite understandable,” Vivec said.

Oh, but it wasn't that simple. It was oil and water, yes. But their conversations were wonderful; her new perspective on things was different and refreshing. And, he loved dazzling her with his power.

Why, oh why, couldn't he use his other powers – his sexy powers – on her?

Again, she was better off without him. She needed to find someone who could give her everything: companionship, intelligent conversation, and sex. Erich was a shitty friend.

“She's going to fall in love with him,” he mumbled. “I just know it.”

Vivec's hands drifted upward to gently scratch his scalp, and he couldn't help but shudder as his skin broke out in tingles.

“I don't mind that,” he clarified, “I don't mind her falling in love. She's not the 'married with babies' type and he certainly isn't either. And as much as I wanted children when I was a mortal, I probably would have been better off finding one of Sanguine's fuck-communes.”

The hands in his hair gently scratched a path from the front of his scalp to the back and he closed his eyes. From touch alone, his mood began to improve ever so slightly.

“I understand that feeling,” Vivec sighed. “Attaching to mortals is heartbreaking.”

Sheogorath opened his eyes and stared out at the colorful garden. “At least when the God exists on another plane, they can take the mortal's soul after the body has passed. You didn't have that luxury.”

“No,” he replied, “I did not.”

Her soul belonged to either Azura or Akatosh; when Mehra died, there was a good chance they'd be separated for eternity. She was as she was and Erich –

His soul still belonged to Sithis, in a way.

Now that Erich was immortal and filled with divine spark, he gained an entirely new perspective. He understood the desire to keep a mortal for himself. Love between a God and mortal as something so powerful, passionate, and beautiful. Sithis did whatever he could to honor and keep his favorites, it seemed.

Selfishly, Erich wanted to take Mehra. He wanted to rip her from Azura and Akatosh and keep her for himself. He'd make her Queen of the isles. But he knew that she didn't want that.

Mehra fought to live and have peace and make her own way in life. She wanted to study magic and the sword and though she never said it outright, he figured she might even want to fall in love with someone and forget having to save the world.

It made him angry that she wasn't allowed what she wanted.

“Please, relax your shoulders, Lord,” Vivec murmured.

He sighed deeply and attempted to relax as best he could. “That bad, hm?”

“Yes, beautiful Lord.”

Vivec's hands drifted to his shoulders and began to knead the muscles there.

“Beautiful?” Sheogorath replied. “A God in a barbarian skin?”

“You seem quite cultured. I would have liked to have met you when you were mortal, I believe.”

Erich nodded as the deft hands on his shoulders slowly massaged as much stress out of them as they could. He wondered how mundane mortal life seemed to Vivec, now that he'd lived the life of a god once, and the life of a mortal twice.

“For what it is worth,” Vivec said, “I appreciate my new home here. I will not begin to guess your intentions as to why you broke me free from Molag Bal, but I am grateful nevertheless. And I am ever intrigued by you and learning whatever you will share of yourself.”

Well, he was in a rather unique position, if he thought about it. Erich was one of five mortals who achieved godlike powers, and one of two whom actually achieved godhood.

Interesting how both mortals who became gods were both Nords.

Erich pursed his lips and stared at the rippling surface of the pond. It felt wrong to compare himself to Talos, despite the fact that he earned his godhood through trial and merit as well.

A strange and familiar pull on his senses brought him out of his thoughts. Glancing over to the far end of the garden, he saw Sanguine standing in the archway that lined the entrance to one of the private areas of the palace.

Strange how Sanguine knew just when to show up, but then again –

Wasn't Sanguine technically the “Lord of Social Calls”?

Sanguine shuffled away from the doorway, a wicked smirk on his face. There was a certain slink to him that reminded Erich of a sabre cat – powerful limbs, shoulders and back covered in thick muscle, and long, black talons.

Sanguine's infernal gaze captured him, and after a long second, he remembered to breathe.

What was this? Was it just Sanguine? Or, did all of the Seventeen have such magnetism that they bespelled even their kin?

Slowly, he stood to greet his unexpected company.

“Hello, Lover,” Sheogorath said. “I feel damned at the mere sight of you, from the fires of hell in your eyes.”

Sanguine gave him a coy smile and sauntered over.

He liked that, then? Sheogorath could spout poetry and pretty words for days on end. He could also flay someone and clip blades of grass with hand shears for days on end but –

Ah, it wasn't relevant.

“My lover's name is Desire,” he continued. “He is a predator unmatched, and when I see him, my wits leave me – or uh, what's left of them.”

Wow, his eyes though.

Sanguine stopped in front of him, his expression unreadable.

Perhaps, he shouldn't have attempted poetry. He was a shit poet. There was no way Sanguine liked such drivel.

“You look stressed and upset,” Sanguine observed.

Sheogorath sighed deeply and shook his head. “I am, a bit.”

“Sounds like you need to get hammered.”

“Hammered, how?” Erich asked.

Sanguine shrugged. “Any way you'd like it.”

Erich threw his hands in the air. How in all the thousands of existent planes was that supposed to help?

“So, is that what you're here for?” he asked. “Drinking friend? Fuck buddy? Smoking pal?”

Sanguine laughed and shook his head. “Better than that,” he said. “I just got back from talking with Mephala. She really wants you to come meet her. How's today? How about right now?”

Sheogorath stomped his feet, huffed, and pouted. “Saaaanguine! Why?”

The humor of his tantrum didn't reach his mind, but he faked a chuckle afterward anyway.

“No!” Sanguine cried. “No! It's good! I promise! She might even fuck you. In fact, I'm sure she'll fuck you.”

He blinked and stared at Sanguine. Seriously?

“I'm not into sex like you are,” Sheogorath grumbled. “I probably like it less than I did when I was a mortal, now. I can even go weeks without it! Sometimes, months! Finally, some peace and quiet. It's kind of nice, really.”

Peace and quiet, except for the fact that his brain constantly buzzed with incoherent, violent, self-destructive, and paranoid thoughts. And, peace and quiet, except for the fact that Sanguine constantly plied him to get what he wanted – which was always some form of sex act or some way to get intoxicated.

Ah, they weren't made of the same stuff, but he appreciated Sanguine for what he was; kin and companion of another form that reminded him that he wasn't so alone in creation.

“But we fuck every time I come over,” Sanguine said. “And besides, she can probably help you with your problem.”

His 'problem'? As in his 'problem' with being able to have his way with mortals – Mehra – gently on a consistent basis without someone to guard said mortal from him during the act?

Intriguing.

“That's because it's you coming over,” Sheogorath sighed. “Alright, fine. I'll go. But if you mention anything about Vivec to her, I will be mad at you forever. Forever!”

Sanguine leaned in, put his arm around his shoulder, and kissed him on the cheek. “Wouldn't dream of it,” he said. “I like being able to have my parties and social calls wherever I'm permitted. The only thing that can make me still is, well, substance.”

“Unsurprising, dear,” he replied. “And you need to tell me about what you did with you-know-who.”

Sanguine dropped his arm from his shoulder. “I, uh,” he mumbled, “you know.”

“Oh, I know,” he said. “And I am so damn pent up and frustrated because of you-know-who. What was it like?”

“Sounds like it. And it was great. Like I said, Mephala might be able to help.”

Grateful that Sanguine didn't use any explicit adjectives to describe his encounter with Mehra, Sheogorath linked arms with him. As they walked across the courtyard toward the palace, he shouted out to the Isle – to Haskill, wherever he was – that he'd be out. With that, they stopped in front of the door that led inside.

Sheogorath felt the little crackle of energy leap from Sanguine's hand to the doorknob to alter where it led. Changing the properties of the door was a simple matter to a Daedra Lord, especially creating passage to realms to which they traveled most often. Such power was why treaties existed in which only skilled summoners and mages could summon the strongest of the Daedra.   
  
With their destination set, Sanguine turned the knob on the door, pushed it open, and ushered him into a dim cavern lit by blue glowing plants. As the door closed behind them, the air stilled entirely.

They stood in front of a dark, jagged palace draped in intricate webbing. Unsurprisingly, spider daedra patrolled the outside. As they passed by them, the hair on his arms stood on end and he viciously rubbed the offensive sensation away.

It wasn't the looks of them; they were his kin, now. In fact, there were a few spider daedra in his realm, though they were a minority on the island. The sound of them walking on a smooth, hard surface – that scratchy, wispy sound – always managed to give him a bit of a shiver.

Sanguine tugged him up the front stairs of the palace, through the main hall, and through winding corridors. Not a single one of the patrolling daedra stopped them in their intrusion, except the occasional nod and greeting. Apparently, Sanguine was that common of a sight around Mephala's labyrinth of a home.   
  
Sheogorath noted with some satisfaction that he seemed dressed for the occasion; the place was dark, and Mephala seemed to have an affinity for blue and purple.   
  
He watched as Sanguine opened door after door and peered into dozens of empty rooms. After minutes of searching, Sanguine turned toward a web lining one of the gray walls of the palace and gave it a yank.

A door creaked open at the far end of the hall and Sanguine chuckled quietly.

“I brought company,” he called.

“I know,” a voice replied.

Sanguine gave him a gentle squeeze on the shoulder before letting go. Steeling himself, Erich followed him into the room –

If it could even be called a room.

The area was an endless, black void filled with webs. A few pieces of furniture dotted the immediate area: a large, silver looking glass suspended by webbing, black lounge, and a few seats. And there, on an ottoman at the foot of the lounge sat a figure whom could be none other than Mephala.

Her legs were magnificent. There were eight of them that he could see from there – long, black, hairless, and glossy. They started between a pair of humanoid shoulder blades and ended just above her tapered waist. A pair of – hm, pedipalps? The spider equivalent of digits – worked at something with yarn while a pair of human arms seemed likewise occupied. The spider legs gave her otherwise small stature an imposing silhouette.

Stretching, she put the work in her hands away, stood, and turned to face them. Mephala was a tiny, pixie thing with short, tightly-cropped black hair. He counted eight shiny black eyes on her face, the main pair humanoid in shape – and thankfully, in the typical location. She gave him a fanged smile that rivaled his own, and his eyes traveled down the charcoal expanse of her smooth, hairless skin.

The Prince of Sex was naked.

Why did that surprise him? It shouldn't have.

Mephala approached him, the tiny pedipalps arched over her head busily knitting ethereal threads together.

“I know what you did, Madgod,” she said.

Did – did what? He did lots of things. Better to dodge that one, he supposed.

He smirked and gave her a short bow. “Of course you do, Madam. You've many eyes.”

“That poor priestess,” Sanguine laughed. “Killed everyone at the Temple with an unholy blade and made a hell of a blasphemous scene. You do some really dramatic things, Sheogorath. I envy that you have the balls to do something that bold.”

Oh! Well, that was a surprise. That wasn't his plan, really.

“It may draw attention to an artifact of mine which is sealed in the city,” Mephala said. “So, it's a job well done.”

Sheogorath didn't want to admit to her that he hadn't expected the priestess to break so easily on her own. He expected her to come to her senses from her possession with the Nettlebane in her hands, only to find that she had irreparably corrupted the Gildergreen with no memories of the man she sent to help her fix it. Perhaps, the war really did have the woman in a fragile state. Maybe, he'd underestimated his strength.

He thought back to his conversation with Vivec. It stood to reason that Kyne loved her priestess. Why didn't Kyne protect her from him? Did she want to draw closer to her mortal at any cost?

Well, at any rate, the Eldergleam would recover – slowly. He hadn't added any of his own blood to the mixture, which surely would have killed it. After all, the Gildergreen was his target, not its parent.

Mephala stepped forward and walked toward him, the sway of her tiny hips mesmerizing him for a brief second. He blinked as she held up her hands to him.

Alright. They were all like this. They were all stunning creatures.

Alternatively, the ones associated with beauty and sex had 'that special something'. He'd have to look into it. The whole thing was confounding.

Hm. Did he do this to others, then?

No, he couldn't. He wasn't even close to being as lovely.

“Here,” she said, “for your hair.”

The set of silk orchids weren't large, but it was exactly his style – yellow with silver and purple with gold.

“They're lovely,” he replied. “It is an honor to have them.”

“Your scheme may have aided me,” Mephala shrugged. “It was over the top, of course, but again, I think it may help me in the long run. A token is warranted at a minimum, Madgod.”

She stopped knitting and transferred the flowers from her hand to one of her delicate knitting legs. Reaching up, she tucked the silken flowers behind his ear, her leg gently caressing his jaw as she peered up at him.

“Sanguine was right,” Mephala said. “You are a beautiful young thing. The mystery of godhood looks nicely on you.”

The only thing she said that was right out of all of that was that he was young. And given that sex was part of her sphere, she probably wanted to try him out just to say that she did.

“Ah, I can see it in your eyes,” Mephala frowned. “You don't believe me. Melancholy this time, Sheogorath? I'll admit that I do not understand this mood; it is not in my nature.”

Sanguine stepped forward to wrap his arm around his shoulder. “I've seen it before, but never this dark. Did something trigger it?”

Sheogorath pursed his lips. He didn't want to share about his failure with Mehra, especially not with the two Lords renowned for their sexual prowess. They'd certainly laugh at him – moreso than they already had behind his back.

“An answer is not necessary,” Mephala shrugged. “I do not wish to create animosity between us when we've only just met. I see the mortals deal with melancholy often and suppose this bridges the gap between us and them. The fact that you are once-mortal gives you knowledge that we simply do not and cannot have.”

The leg against his jaw drifted down his collarbone toward his chest.

“False compliments aren't necessary,” Sheogorath mumbled.

Mephala removed the leg immediately. “Facts are facts, not compliments.”

“I agree,” Sanguine said.

Of course he'd agree. His bond with Mephala was obvious by the way they looked at each other. Sheogorath saw love there – a love which Sanguine didn't hold for him.

Mephala motioned toward the mirror hanging in her web some distance away. Sanguine quickly followed her, and despite the heaviness in his limbs, Sheogorath put one foot in front of the other to go along with it.

“I certainly don't expect immediate trust,” Mephala offered. “After all, you know your origins. And your current state does lend you to distrust. But I did give you my sword to protect you when you were a mortal. I'll admit that I am occasionally prone to sentiment.”

He couldn't tell if she was lying or not, and he didn't like it.

“I plan to give the sword to a new champion,” she continued. “A former lover of yours: Azura's champion. I hope that you take it as a sign of goodwill. And if you do not, it is all the same to me. She is my sister's champion, and she was one of my best assassins.”

They stopped in front of the looking glass and Erich crossed his arms.

“Ebony Blade?” he asked.

Mephala nodded. “Unchanged since you left it in your tower. Do you believe it needs any modifications to suit her?”

“None,” he answered. “She has a Skyforge steel longsword, and an enchanted ebony dagger that used to be mine. Your blade's length is a perfect compliment.”

“So, you've seen her. Not only that, but it seems you've gifted her, as well. So, you're attached to her, then, Sheogorath?”

Damn. Well, Mephala certainly had him figured out quickly.

“Ah,” she sighed, “the look on your face says a lot. I'll leave you be on it. Just know that I don't judge attachment. After all, I'm quite attached to my beloved Sanguine. Aren't I, dear?”

Sanguine leaned over to give her a quick kiss. “I think we understand him just fine, in our own way.”

Mephala reached toward the mirror and pulled it closer so they could gaze into it. “Anyway, you were always fond of lessons,” she said. “Is this still true, Sheogorath?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent,” she replied. “I've had a thought on my mind since I learned of your change. What is it like to be mortal? The experience; I know the condition of mortality.”

Sheogorath crossed his arms and peered into the mirror, taking in the sparse features that marked him as a daedra. So much more than those changed; it was his blood – his very soul.

“That's a difficult thing to answer,” he said.

In order to do it, he'd have to remember. And remembering was difficult, at times.

“The mirror can help,” Mephala said. Quickly, she expanded it in size and turned it toward him. She was much too eager, and he supposed this was part of her plan in inviting him over for tea or – something more sensual.

Well, if she wanted to know, then he supposed he'd have to start somewhere. And if it became a jumbled mess of information, then she'd have to sort it out later.

Sheogorath approached the mirror, confident yet disturbed that he knew what to do with it. He touched it before, maybe, in his past life –

His other past life. It was no matter. This was about his mortal past.

He showed her everything that came to mind:

Of hulling peas with Gran-ma during the late summer under a dying sun, with gnats so thick in the air that they constantly flew into his eyes and nose. The rhythmic sound of snapping and peeling peas accompanied the crickets outside as Ma washed the dishes inside. He heard her muted voice along with Da's and couldn't help the growing knot of anxiety in his stomach every time Da spoke his name. Gran-ma was dead within the end of the year, quite unexpectedly. Da didn't cry at his own mother's funeral; seemed that Ma cried all the tears for the both of them.

Of milking the cow, missing the bucket more than once and hoping that Da hadn't seen it. He filled the bucket only to trip and spill the entire thing right in front of Da. He felt the sting of his father's hand on his cheek days afterward and made sure to keep his head down and to stay out of sight.

Of his Auntie and Uncle and cousins visiting. His gifted cousin – Tolfdir! Ah! He'd forgotten his name – showing him a light spell he learned from the Temple. They ran around like a pair of half-naked animals when he stayed for that summer and Erich was rarely punished, especially after 'the incident'. Da went to punish him for something – couldn't remember what it was; probably really was Erich's fault – and Erich ran off in a panic, freezing the cellar door shut as he slammed it behind him. He never manned up for his spankings well enough.

Erich didn't scrap with anyone that summer. Ma seemed pleased; she wanted him to learn magic. Still, Da pushed back on it, especially as Ma's stomach grew with new life inside. Da wanted him to be ready to help with the little one, and it was one thing that he and Erich agreed on. Once the baby was born, Erich had to be a big and strong older brother.

The first and only time he saw his father cry was when that baby – the tiniest, most delicate little girl – was born dead that winter.

Erich spent that spring angry at everything. Why did the Gods allow his sister to die? One of the boys in the schoolyard teased him about it and he pummeled the kid to the ground with sparks flying from his clenched fists. It took three grown men to haul him off the kid, and looking back on it, he figured he must have accidentally cast some sort of strength buff. The incident had him laid up in bed for days afterward with a headache so bad that he wished for death. Ivarstead wasn't the same after then. Whispers traveled around town about him, and the adults who once welcomed him kept him at arm's length.

Not much later – a year? Three years? – he made his first trip up to High Hrothgar on an unusually warm spring day. In those days, the Greybeards had tokens out front for those who visited, and Erich made a point to show the one he collected to his parents at supper. He remembered the rush of pride he felt as Da stared at the coin in wonder and declared him 'on his way to being a man'.

He'd been on his way for a long time before then, with kissing half of the girls and a portion of the boys in the village many summers ago. He had a fire in his belly at a young age.

At the peak of that summer, Da sat him down in the barn to have a talk. And he remembered it vividly.

“So, what do you think of girls, Erich?”

Erich shrugged and forked another mound of hay into the stall. “They're alright.”

Sifa – a girl not too much older than he – made him see stars a few weeks back. He wanted more of that, whatever it was.

“Look, Erich,” Da sighed. “I'm not the best at this stuff. But you're getting to the age where you're going to need to learn what it is to be a man: all parts of it.”

Da explained it, his face red. He looked like it was the last thing he ever wanted to talk about with Erich. When he was finished, he asked if Erich had any questions, though he had the distinct impression that Da hoped that he didn't.

“So that's what happened,” Erich said.

Shame it had to do with making babies. He didn't want to do that.

Mephala chuckled quietly, breaking him out of the memory temporarily. And looking back on it, Erich supposed it was quite funny. It was, after all, the one time he managed to get one over on his father.

Da was more than a bit upset to find that he'd been sleeping around. So young! Only thirteen! Babies having babies! Shor preserve us and take us!

“Can it be done with boys?” Erich asked.

Da turned to him with wide eyes. “You like boys, son?”

He nodded quietly.

“Just boys?”

Erich shrugged. “Well, I like girls, too.”

“My son's a tomcat,” Da sighed. “You can't have babies with a boy, but you damn well can get a disease. So don't start sleeping around unless you want pustules coming out of your arse.”

He was a terrible listener. Erich fooled around as he pleased and scrapped with anyone who messed with him. He acted out enough that Da saw it fit to send him to Windhelm. The fact that he climbed to High Hrothgar regularly seemed to impress admissions well enough.

The Academy taught him a bit about discipline. At least, it taught him how to hide his thoughts better, and it taught him how to not flinch in the face of a man yelling at him. Two years there taught him the way of the sword, and a love of books. He came back to the farm completely changed.

Erich – eighteen, at the time – took satisfaction in the fact that he was a full head and shoulders taller than Da. He quickly discovered the thrill of being able to sass back to him, despite the fact that even after two years apart, his father managed to scare him.

The constant bickering made Ma weary. He felt guilty over it, but Da got under his skin so much that –

It was better if he just left.

Part of being mortal was running away from problems. Mortals were powerless against nearly everything: age, disease, desires, responsibility. Mortal life was of struggle.

He struggled against his father over not getting haircuts. He struggled with controlling his gift of magic. He struggled with his eyes – with lust. He struggled with never being quite good enough.

So when Da told him that he would carry on with the farm – told him, not requested – he didn't have much to say.

That night, when his parents were asleep, Erich packed a bag, strapped on his Academy sword, and left his parents' farm for good.

He never saw them again.

Erich made his escape to the Imperial City and found it wasn't the paradise he'd hoped. He struggled for years in the surprisingly heartless city of stone, living in a run-down flophouse on the Waterfront.

Ma forgive him; he became a prostitute.

He found a few wealthy folks – mostly middle-aged women in loveless marriages or widows – who he was able to get some work from. They passed him around among their circle of friends.

Eventually, he made his own way by teaching himself an Imperial accent, and doing petty theft jobs. The city turned him hard; he went after progressively more expensive and harder to reach targets. Erich used his skills from climbing to High Hrothgar to break into the citadels of the wealthy. It was enough that the Thieves' Guild asked him to join, and put a mark on him when he refused.

They left him alone when they found out that he was perfectly willing to gut someone over his prizes.

The first kill he made was a damn mess. His dagger didn't go in very well. He made the mistake of looking the guy in the eyes. Really, it was a uniquely mortal experience.

Sheogorath conjured up the memories of how it felt and fed them to Mephala's web. It was permanent. That man wouldn't go home. He had at least one person who would miss him. He wouldn't see the sun again, feel the rain, nor would he live through another turning of the seasons. He was there one minute, and gone the next.

He cried as he washed the blood off of his hands. Cried the whole way home – to his rented room in the Market District – and cried off and on for the next few days.

In hindsight, he really had a rough start in the killing business.

“So that,” Mephala mused. “That's all about being mortal: permanence, struggle, and helplessness.”

Sheogorath sighed and blinked the connection from his mind. “It is,” he admitted, “but it certainly isn't that bleak.”

“Prostitute,” Sanguine mused, “I knew there was something about you when you visited my shrine. Let's have a smoke and you can tell me about some of your encounters.”

He sighed. There wasn't much to say; there were great clients, and there were awful ones. One of the first took it upon herself to name him, and the name stuck to the point where he still responded to catcalls of, 'Hey, Red!'. He'd forgotten why it vexed him so – to the point where he outlawed the nickname altogether in the Shivering Isles long before Mehra minded him that he was once a mortal man.

And absolutely none of his old clients could have replaced his Ma, despite some of their attempts to coddle him.

Mephala gently pushed the mirror back to its original position. Raising her spider legs upward, she cast a canopy of webbing and brought it down to level with her chest.

“That looks like a cozy one,” Sanguine murmured. “We can tie him down and show him the best pleasure of all his eternity.”

She hastily tacked the web up to threads that ran above them in the void and turned to Sanguine with a frown.

“That was tactless, dear,” she said.

Sanguine rolled his eyes. “You know well that I'm not –”

“Get in the web.”

Her knitting speed increased furiously, the sound of bone needles clacking together echoing through the void. Mephala pointed toward the web with her arm and gave Sanguine a harsh slap on the bottom as he climbed in. Sighing, Mephala turned to Sheogorath.

“He revels, but he's miserable at seduction,” she said. “I'll admit that I desire as he described, but it was my sincere hope to woo you instead.”

Mephala motioned toward the web, and Sheogorath climbed in to curl up next to Sanguine, just as the Prince of Debauchery lit up a pipe.

“He's had his way with me multiple times over,” Erich shrugged. “Wooing is nice, but not necessary, I suppose. The sentiment is appreciated, though.”

“Of course, lovely,” Mephala sighed.

She climbed in behind him and scrambled over to nestle herself between them. Without prompting, Sanguine put his pipe to her lips.

As she exhaled a breath of smoke, Mephala reached up into her web and withdrew a bottle of red champagne. She quickly uncorked it and took a drag straight from the bottle, much to Sanguine's apparent delight.

“She's secretly a hoarder,” Sanguine chuckled.

“Sanguine.”

“Loses things all the time.”

“Sanguine.”

“There's an entire realm of hers full of knit, crochet, and tapestry items.”

“Sanguine.”

“All her holiday gifts are handmade.”

“Sanguine.”

“Her cunt is so tight.”

“Hell's souls, Sanguine!”

Sanguine leaned over and gave her a peck on the cheek as she frowned. Shaking her head, Mephala reached up toward Sheogorath and stopped midway in hesitation.

“May I touch your hair, Sheogorath?” she asked.

“Sure,” he shrugged.

Mephala was silent as she ran her hands through his hair, examining it carefully. He wondered if she had curiosity toward it as a fiber artist. After all, daedra in general were made of much tougher stuff than mortals, and hair was a wondrous structure.

If they became attached enough, he might gift her a lock or two of it.

She narrowed her eyes and picked at something in his hair. With a frown, Mephala pulled her hand away, and with it came a long, wavy strand of black hair.

It belonged to Mehra, and they all knew it.

So, would Sheogorath get in trouble for cavorting with her 'niece'?

“Some advice, young God,” Mephala said. “Be careful and don't rock the boat too much. I shouldn't have to tell you what happened to the last time someone made too grand of an entrance on the mortal plane.”

He pursed his lips and nodded.

She referred to Mehrunes Dagon. He certainly had no ambitions to take over the place and messing around was probably within the parameters of what was alright.

Well, he had no plans to return to the mortal plane or Mehra anytime soon.

Not with his constant failures. Not with how he kept distracting Mehra from her duties. Not with how he kept doing things for her in a bid to please them both.

And not when he could accidentally drive a wedge between–

He drew a shaking hand to push his hair away from his eyes. “Mephala, what do you know of the wizard Neloth?”

Her knowing smile made him immediately regret the question.

 

* * *

  
  


Eorlund handed the reforged ax directly to her when the Circle gathered around his forge to receive it. Maybe it was because she was the eldest. Maybe it was because of who she was. Or, maybe, it was because she was just there.

Regardless of the reason, Ysgramor's axe was a heavy burden to bear – both metaphorically and quite literally.

As the Circle wandered down the road toward Ysgramor's tomb, she drew the axe off her back to look at it again. It really was a nicely-made weapon; the carvings on it were very detailed and –

Were those screaming mer on the head of the axe?

Mehra stared down at Wuuthrad in her hands and pursed her lips. Maybe she ought not to be the one holding it – ever.

“I've got news for you,” she said. “I know as much about using a battleaxe as I do about painting.”

“You're an expert painter?” Farkas chuckled.

“Hell no!” Mehra laughed.

She liked the Companions a lot, but she desperately wanted to drop the thing. Clearly, her kind weren't a welcome part of the group for a long time, and she had no idea when that changed.

But these people? They made her feel very welcome. An axe created to destroy her kind couldn't get in the way of that, but it certainly made her not want to hold it.

“Let's have Vilkas take it,” Aela said. “It's most similar to a broadsword. We shouldn't be foolish with this.”

Mehra slowed in her walk and handed the axe to Vilkas. With its weight gone, she felt lighter – as light as she could be, at any rate.

The news from this morning was extremely troublesome. There was an attack of some sort at the Temple. That was troubling in and of itself.

But what was even more troubling was the fact that the Jarl and city guard kept the details to themselves. Still, more troubling than that was the rumor that it was a daedric cult attack of some form.

It couldn't have been Erich. He was with her when it happened. In fact, now that she thought of it, those guards running toward the Temple district yesterday evening could have been responding to the attack.

No, it definitely had nothing to do with Erich. There had to be some explanation for it and perhaps, she could investigate it if Jarl Balgruuf needed help.

Mehra was abnormally versed in daedra, after all.

“Your friend, Erich, seemed to know a bit about werewolves,” Farkas said. “Now he doesn't smell a bit like one of us, but he definitely smells a bit different.”

“He's not a werewolf,” Mehra confirmed.

Vilkas stayed silent and kept his eyes on the horizon.

“I guess what I'm saying is, uh,” Farkas continued, “you trust his thoughts on what we're about to do, right?

She nodded. “Absolutely. He's very well-read. Of course, reading too many things containing forbidden knowledge has some considerable mental drawbacks.”

Farkas scratched his head in confusion and turned around to walk backwards in order to get a better look at her. “What do you mean by that?” he asked.

“The man's a loon, brother,” Vilkas frowned. “Didn't you notice?”

“Well, yeah,” he shrugged. “But I didn't know that's what she meant. Guy's alright by me, Mehra. A guy who will stop in his day to tell a story to kids is a good guy.”

“As I said before, anyone who is a friend of yours is good by me,” Aela said. “That's enough reason for me. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry about his illness.”

Mehra followed Aela and Vilkas up the road to the north. Yes, Erich was ill – the most mentally unstable and ill being in all of creation, given who he was. Even then, he left abruptly last night to ensure that he didn't hurt her.

But, was she truly sorry that he was as he was?

“I'm not sorry,” Mehra said. “If he hadn't stumbled into that forbidden knowledge, he wouldn't have been alive to see me return. I'm a selfish and awful person, Aela.”

She waved a dismissive hand toward her. “It's likely that many others would think the same thing,” Aela shrugged. “You gave voice to that. I think that makes you honest.”

Well, Mehra liked to think she was honest. At least, she wanted to be honest as much as she could without putting people in jeopardy. Having the Companions know her true identity scared her at first, but she quickly realized that there was freedom and relief knowing that there were people who knew her and cared.

“Speaking of honest,” Vilkas said, “I figure we should tell you; Ysgramor's tomb is not located where the stories say it is. It's up north on the far shores near Winterhold. He was buried so that he could face Atmora – the place he was born, and the place where his ancestors rested.”

Mehra nodded. That made sense. Come to think of it, when she stood on the balcony of the Arcanaeum on a clear day, there appeared to be a large barrow off in the distance. It was much too far away for her to tell its age, but given how remote it was, she figured it to be quite old.

The Circle traveled for days, making small talk on various fights and hunts they experienced. And while Mehra wasn't one to brag on her accomplishments, her friends' insistence that she share her adventures made her give in. She told them about her introduction to the strange, vicious lizard cattle of Morrowind, and of the large hives full of giant insects that the people cultivated for food. She told them of the constant terror of the people living under the shadow of Dagoth Ur, and the foul creatures he created. Everything she could remember of the place that adopted her she shared.

Then, Mehra gave them her shameful admission: she hadn't been to Morrowind since she returned to Tamriel, despite her oath to protect it.

None of the Circle judged her for it. Instead, they expressed an interest in joining her when she returned. It was a strong reminder as to why she made sure to return to them often:

The Companions had her back. They always would.

She'd do likewise. If she had to strike a bargain with Hircine, she'd find a way to make it work so that Kodlak's soul could go on to Sovngarde. It was the least she could do.

As they drew closer to Ysgramor's tomb, the conversations grew more somber, until they reached Winterhold. From there, they traveled on in silence.

They followed a faded path down from the town toward the sea. The shore led them closer toward the place where Mehra remembered the ancient barrow. As they walked further, the very barrow she saw from the balcony of the College came into view.

Aela eyed the barrow in front of them and motioned toward the sea. “If it were colder, we'd have a path from the ice,” she said. “I don't like the idea of all of us swimming it; that water is deceptively cold.”

The rest of the Circle nodded in agreement. And while they hadn't said anything about it, Aela's inference was clear. She worried about Mehra having to cross the water, given that she had no natural resistance to the cold like the others.

“I've got a water walking spell,” Mehra said. “Are you all safe to swim? I can't cast it on others, unfortunately. Might be something useful to learn in the future.”

Farkas shrugged. “Got the blood of the north to help. We'll be fine.”

They edged along the shore until they reached a place directly opposite the barrow. Wading into the water, the werewolf members of the Circle crossed with relative ease as Mehra picked her way over the water next to them.

The tide was on their side; crossing the water meant wading rather than swimming, which wouldn't have been possible in the twins' heavy armor. Still, if it became necessary later, Mehra supposed she'd carry their armor across the water piece by piece.

The Circle made landfall in seconds and trudged their way up a rocky bank toward the dark, weathered stones of the barrow. They climbed the slippery stones that led up to its entrance then down the short set of stone stairs circled around the tomb's domed top.

Mehra took a glance around the outer entrance of the barrow. It seemed so typical of the other tombs she'd seen that she wouldn't have known it belonged to Ysgramor had she not been told.

Perhaps, that was the point.

Aela stepped forward with a stern look and grabbed the large, ebony handle on the barrow door. She tugged the rusted, ancient door open, and Mehra couldn't help but notice how easily it opened, despite its age.

She wasn't superstitious, but perhaps, it was possible that they'd been expected.

Vilkas drew Wuuthrad from the sling on his back and regarded it with a sigh. “I'm still furious with the Silver Hand for what they did,” he said. “Am I even worthy to enter this sacred place?”

Mehra stared into the darkness ahead. “If we had to be perfect, then none would enter,” she replied. “It's about Kodlak, not our imperfections. Each of us has some form of darkness in our hearts. Let's do what we can together.”

“I agree,” Aela said. “The Companions have never been about perfection, Brother. We are about honesty and honor.”

Farkas shifted a bag containing one of the Glenmoril Witch heads on his back. “I think we're all mad at ourselves, more than anything,” he said. “It happened right under our noses.”

Mehra nodded in agreement.

“We should prepare ourselves, then,” Vilkas mused. “Since this is the resting place of Ysgramor and his strongest Companions, we should be ready to do honorable battle to prove our worthiness.”

She sucked in a breath and followed them inside. It made sense that there would be trials, but given their weariness, would they be prepared for them?

As the tall twins stepped out of the entrance, the sun poured into the dim tomb to illuminate a large statue in the center of a small room. The figure depicted in stone was a tall, strong Nord with ancient-style armor. He stood with his hands outstretched, almost as if he ought to be holding something.

From a glance, Mehra figured this to be Ysgramor. She wondered how accurate the statue truly was, but supposed there was no way of finding out.

At the base of the statue lay a cluster of dusty, old offerings. A pair of rancid-looking potions lay off to the side, with a bouquet of dry flowers next to them. In the center of the statue's base was a dusty, moth-eaten pelt and a waxy horn of some form.

Vilkas sighed and stared up at the statue. He raised Wuuthrad up, gently placing it in the statue's hands. As soon as the weapon met the statue, the wall behind the statue fell to reveal a hidden entrance riddled with cobwebs.

“I hope I am worthy enough as one of your Companions,” Vilkas mumbled. He removed the axe from the statue, and the tomb stayed open.

Mehra cast a light spell as Aela quickly moved to close the barrow's front entrance. When she returned, the Circle trudged forward, looping behind the statue to stop in front of the cavern that led inward.

Before Farkas could make a face at the cobwebs lining the passage, Mehra stepped forward in front of the group.

“Yol.”

Flames curled outward from the sound of her voice, incinerating the cobwebs in the way and any spiders with them. Even household spiders were enough to scare Farkas, and Mehra figured that he'd likely want to save face in front of the spirits of his predecessors, at the very least.

The Circle followed her into the cramped passageway.

“I wonder what he thinks,” Farkas murmured, “of one of us having the heart of a dragon.”

Aela shrugged. “Likely, a few were Dragonborn. Back in Ysgramor's time, there were many more. I hope Kodlak will forgive me for reading his library since he's been gone, but the way I figure it is that the books there are meant to be read, not looked at.”

Mehra nodded in agreement and stepped back to allow Aela to pass and lead them onward. With her light spell hovering over her shoulder, Mehra stayed to the middle of the group in an attempt to provide as much light as possible for everyone. They traversed the crumbling, narrow tunnels, descended a small set of stairs partially-buried in roots, and made their way toward a pair of ebony doors at the end of a hallway.

Upon the Circle entering the next chamber, a pair of ghosts stepped out from a pair of crypts lining the hall. Wordlessly, the ghosts – both male, both armed with waraxes – singled out the twins.

Vilkas drew his blade. “Aye, ancestor!”

Mehra and Aela stepped back as Farkas and Vilkas charged forward to duel the Companion ghosts. Keeping away from the crypts, Mehra backed against one of the large pillars in the crypt and watched as the Companions both old and new dueled.

The sound of steel meeting astral blades rang out through the large hall of the dead. Farkas and Vilkas fought well, their skill clearly above that of the spirits.

But the spirits had something which the twins did not: infinite stamina.

Farkas parried his opponent's axe and stopped his blade short of the spirit's throat. His chest heaved with exertion, and even from the distance she stood, Mehra saw a bead of sweat trickle down his cheek.

Off to the side, Vilkas shoved the ghost he fought into a dusty brazier. The spirit tumbled through the object entirely and fell onto the ground to find Vilkas' sword at his neck.

The sound of labored breathing and dripping water echoed through the vaulted chamber.

Mehra pushed off the pillar and stepped closer. “They're waiting, you know,” she said.

“Waiting?” Farkas grumbled.

“Well, their spirits have been summoned,” she shrugged. “There are only two ways to banish a spirit; a long and involved ritual, or, alternatively, death.”

Farkas' eyes shifted to the spirit in front of him. “I gotta,” he frowned, “I gotta kill him? My ancestor?”

“I'm the new girl, alright?” Mehra said. “I don't know what's necessarily appropriate in this situation. But that is how it works with ghosts.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Vilkas pantomime something. Sighing, she stepped forward toward Farkas and wondered if she could get through attempting to speak some awful ancient Chimeris, in the hope that these Companions were of the right time that they would understand parts of it from fighting against the Chimer.

She didn't mind it, of course, but the whole thing was so strange. Had either of them lost, she wondered if the Companion ghosts would have killed one of them.

Mehra jumped at the sound of a blade slicing through ectoplasm. Turning toward the sound, she saw that Vilkas had taken care of banishing the soul of his opponent.

“She's right,” Vilkas said. “We need to get moving.”

Aela emerged from the dark of the far end of the hall as Farkas released his opponent's soul from the mortal plane.

The group descended deeper into the crypt, dueling more Companions as they went. Eventually, the ghosts became so thick that the fight became a free-for-all, with Mehra unleashing her Thu'um and spells in order to protect herself and her fellow Companions.

If the ghosts of the Harbingers and other Companions before didn't want a mage in their midst, then fine; she had friends to protect.

After the fighting died down, Mehra eyed the entrance to the way further down. There, flanking the doorway, were a pair of frostbite spider egg sacs. A thick coat of webbing stretched across the doorway, and she wondered how she'd missed such an important detail.

“No, no, no, no, no.”

“Farkas,” Vilkas mumbled.

“No,” Farkas repeated. “No!”

Mehra turned from the doorway and walked back toward the visibly shaken Farkas.

“Want a calm spell?” she asked.

Vilkas shot a strange look to Aela, who simply shrugged.

“Isn't that cheating?” Farkas mumbled. His eyes stayed fixated on the doorway, as if spiders would burst out of it at any second.

Well, they likely could.

“You drink a potion for a bad scrape, right?” she asked.

Farkas nodded.

“You get a restoration spell cast if you get stabbed, right?”

He nodded again.

Mehra reached her hands forward, preparing the spell on the tips of her fingers. “So, this is that, for your mind.”

“Sound reasoning,” Aela shrugged. “But when we get back, we need to get this dealt with, for your sake.”

“Cellar spiders?” Vilkas chuckled.

Mehra shook her head. While he likely wasn't off the mark, it was a poor joke.

“You're an ass,” Farkas grumbled, gritting his teeth as the calming spell washed over him.

The spell flickered around him and Mehra turned toward the web-filled door.

“We've got to move fast,” she said. “That lasts for about two minutes, maximum.”

Quickly, she used the Voice to burn away the webs from the door and ran in to the next room, the rest of the Circle charging in behind her. They took care of the spiders in the chamber beyond and the one beyond that, including a dragon-sized spider that the rest of the Companions were sure to be skeptical of when they told stories of their adventure.

The Circle traveled deeper still, stumbling upon a large gallery filled with crypts. The ghosts of the Companions poured out from the graves by dozen, but with Aela's excellent eyes and direction, the Circle overcame the lot of them through her guidance.

After what seemed like hours beneath the surface of the earth, they climbed a short set of stairs that lead to a chamber where a familiar spirit waited. The Circle approached Kodlak as he warmed his astral hands by a mysterious blue fire at a brazier in the middle of the desolate crypt.

Mehra glanced about the area. Crypts lay neatly against the walls, surrounded by cracked urns. At the far end of the chamber lay a carved sarcophagus, protected by an iron cage. For the burial of a fabled hero, it wasn't too fancy, but given the simplicity of Ysgramor’s axe, she didn't expect grandeur.

Kodlak looked up from the fire and smiled at them.

“Didn't expect to see your spirit waiting here, Kodlak,” Aela frowned.

Mehra nodded in agreement. It was worse than she'd thought.

“My fellow Harbingers and I have been here trying to evade Hircine,” he said.

“Other Harbingers?” Farkas said. “I only see you, Kodlak.”

Mehra glanced around the chamber as well and saw no other spirits. Not that she doubted Kodlak, but if there were others present, she ought to have seen them, on merit of her magical abilities.

“You see only me because you've only known me as the Companions' leader,” Kodlak replied. “Old Tilma would probably see half a dozen of them. And I see them all; ones in Sovngarde, ones with Hircine. And they all see you.”

She shook her head. “Shame there aren't a few dozen witch heads,” she sighed. “Could cleanse the lot of you. Are you ready then, Kodlak?”

He turned to her with a nod. “Are you, Dragonborn?”

“I'm a wily old gal,” she shrugged. “Ready as ever.”

“Then go ahead,” he laughed, “throw a head into the Flame of the Harbinger here, and prepare to fight.”

Farkas nodded, slung the bag over his shoulder, and tossed it into the fire. Drawing her sword, Mehra sighed and watched as the bag burned.

“Wasteful kid,” she mumbled.

“It had a corpse head in it,” Farkas grumbled.

The smell of burning burlap, hair and flesh began to fill the crypt.

“It'd air out,” Mehra replied.

“It was starting to get oily,” he said.

She scanned the chamber, looking for any sign of movement. Nothing, yet.

“Herbs, Farkas.”

“Let's ask our ancestors about the damn bag, then,” Vilkas scowled.

Mehra chuckled. “I'm sure they're laughing –”

“It's Kodlak!”

Aela shouted and nocked an arrow at Kodlak's hunched form. A wolf spirit emerged from him in a burst of light, snarling and angry. It lunged toward Mehra and she readied her sword to strike.

An arrow sailed past her, striking the wolf in his chest. Wasting no time, Mehra jogged over to the struggling spirit and beheaded it quickly.

The ectoplasm of the wolf dissolved into nothing, and with it, the astral tether which bound it to Kodlak.

A loud sigh sounded throughout the crypt, as if all the Harbingers of old breathed a collective breath of relief.

“I am free,” Kodlak said. “Perhaps, from Sovngarde, the heroes of old can join me in the rescue of the others who are still trapped – The Harrowing of the Hunting Grounds.”

Mehra sheathed her sword and approached him. “I'll offer this, though I already know the answer,” she said. “I survived Hircine's Hunter's Game as prey at the end of the Third Era. I might be able to leverage something for their souls.”

Kodlak peered out at the crypt – at all the unseen Companions of old.

“They respectfully decline,” he said.

Mehra nodded. She figured so.

“I need to go on to Sovngarde,” Kodlak said. “It is my time.”

Mehra watched out of the corner of her eye as Vilkas sniffed and wiped at his eyes with his glove. And as Aela stepped forward to place a comforting arm on Farkas' shoulders, he openly wept.

They'd see him in another fifty or so years in Sovngarde, if they cleansed their souls likewise. Still, it was a long time, and there was no guarantee that the ritual would work on a living person.

But what a blessing that they finally got to say their goodbyes.

“My boys,” Kodlak said, “I am so proud of you. You've both grown into men of honor, and warriors of great skill and strength. Live with virtue. Forge your own paths through life, wherever it may take you. Guide the Companions.”

“We couldn't have asked for a better father,” Vilkas replied.

Farkas nodded. “I'll miss you, Kodlak.”

Kodlak turned to Mehra and gave her a sad smile.

“Mehra,” he said, “you've been a great strength to the Companions. And you've acted with nothing but integrity since the moment you joined. I only ask one thing: that you guide the Companions with your experience.”

“Done.”

“And Aela,” he continued, “listen well to Mehra as you lead the Companions. Connect with the Circle; connect with the newer members and open your heart as best you can. The books are yours to read.”

Aela blinked in shock. “Of course, Kodlak. It is my honor.”

Mehra gave her a sad smile. “I don't want to be a soppy old person,” she said, “but you're a fine young woman, Aela. And Farkas and Vilkas: you're both solid guys. Each one of you is willing to admit faults, and that's a rare trait in anyone. The Companions will benefit from your leadership in the years to come.”

Aela shook her head. “Well, you're certainly short-changing yourself, again,” she drawled. “You are a valued and extremely important part of this Circle, Mehra. Don't forget that.”

The twins nodded in agreement.

“I'm alright, I guess,” Mehra shrugged, “I mean, I'm –”

A fire-spitting demon-fucker? Was that really Companion material?

She glanced back toward the ebony sarcophagus behind the iron bars at the far end of the chamber. If Ysgramor disapproved of her, she supposed that she'd be experiencing his wrath at the moment.

“Kodlak,” Mehra said, “I'm not going to see you again. My soul is bound to Moonshadow, most likely. Or, wherever Akatosh takes people. I – I'm not sure what to say, other than to give you best wishes for your eternity.

Kodlak gave her a sad smile. “And same to you, Mehra. But I have waited here on the mortal plane long enough; Sovngarde awaits.”

Each said their final goodbye as Kodlak looked upward. He closed his eyes, and with a big exhale, his spirit turned to mist before vanishing into eternity.

The sound of Farkas' breath hitching shattered the silence. Still, he insisted he was alright, even as Aela ushered him to sit off to the side in a surprising display of tenderness.

“Let's take a bit of time, then meet back outside,” Aela said. “This is our history; we should study this place for at least a little while.”

Mehra nodded in agreement then trudged across the chamber toward the carved sarcophagus at the end where Ysgramor's remains lay. She did have one bit of business that she supposed was partially Companion business – or at least, it was pertinent to Ysgramor.

Stopping in front of the coffin, Mehra knelt down, reached in between the bars, and put her hand on the sarcophagus.

“I found the orb,” she murmured. “The one at Saarthal. I'm sorry. I had no clue it was there.”

There was no reply, but if nothing else, the Harbingers of old would overhear her and pass her message along if he didn't hear her.

“I swear to protect it from hands who would use it to do evil,” Mehra said. “Not one more person needs to die for it; using that kind of power is folly.”

Mehra let go of the coffin and stood. “So, that's me coming clean. Kodlak can tell you everything else you may not know about me, I suppose. Your people took me in when I was hungry, and gave me work when I was poor. I owe them much.”

She wasn't sure what else there was to say. Sighing, she stepped back and wandered away from Ysgramor's resting place. While the Circle inspected the crypt, Mehra followed her instincts out of the barrow and up a steep bank. There, in the mostly melted snow, lay a crumbling word wall. Entranced, she stumbled toward it, her hand outstretched toward a particular word.

The word was another part of the one that Erich gave to her. How interesting that she'd find it here, of all places.

She closed her eyes, turned around, and slumped against the wall. There was no hidden meaning behind it; she merely hoped for Erich and signs of Erich in nearly everything.

Chiding herself, Mehra sat there and waited for the Circle to finish looking around the barrow. She did as Paarthurnax instructed and embraced silence as she stared out at the rocky ocean in front of her.

Silence of body was easy; silence of mind, however, was a feat which she had yet to master. Closing her eyes, Mehra made her humble attempt at silence of the mind.

She wasn't certain how much time passed by the time Aela's voice broke her from her trance. With thick clouds in the sky, telling time of day was nearly anyone's guess.

A calloused, slender hand reached down to offer help. Mehra grabbed Aela's hand and slowly stood, stretching the tense muscles in her legs.

“Meditating, Sister?” Aela asked.

“Trying to,” Mehra sighed. “A still mind is not one of my strengths. It seems I can't shut it off; it's always buzzing with 'should haves', plausible scenarios, and wishful thinking. You seem so calm, Aela.”

Aela cracked a rare smile. “I bottle it up,” she said. “And, anyway, I don't think you realize; you appear as a mountain, to others. Personally, I envy Farkas' ability to express himself.”

They began to descend the steep slope that led to the barrow's entrance.

“Same here,” Mehra agreed. “To weep openly and not fear judgment. I don't see him as weak, but I certainly see myself as weak when I do so.”

Aela nodded. “I share the sentiment, Sister.”

Their conversation ended as soon as they caught sight of the twins at the bottom of the hill. And while Mehra still couldn't find peace in her mind, she at least found comfort in the fact that there was another woman she knew who was equally emotionally dysfunctional as she.

Not that either of them would have a joint cry session anytime soon.

The Circle traveled south through the mountains, then trekked across the rocky plains that surrounded Whiterun. Eventually, they reached Jorrvaskr with stories of triumph, and good news that they indeed freed Kodlak from his curse. Each was pleased by the news of Aela as Harbinger, and each told their stories of Kodlak and stories of Aela and the times she demonstrated skills that proved she would be an excellent Harbinger.

The Companions went to bed that night with a hope for the future. Mehra left after everyone shuffled off to bed, made her way back to her home, and stripped out of her armor to get into bed.

When it was all said and done, her heart started to ache once more.

That night, she dreamed of red, orange, and golden trees high above Chorrol and a worn, dirt road. The scent of fall drifted on the wind, earthy and heady, mingling with the leathery, musky smell of Erich next to her. A gust of wind blew past, scattering leaves and dew from last night's rain across the road in front of them. She curled into his side in an attempt to steal some of his warmth, and quickly, he wrapped his arm and half of his cloak around her shoulders.

She lifted the front plate of her helm to feel the air on her face hours ago. Up ahead, she heard the rush of water against rocks, and as they rounded a bend in the road, she saw a bridge across a small waterfall. They stopped there to rest by the water for a while and sat curled up against each other.

Mehra wished that instead of holding hands and kissing, that they made love there instead.

She awoke from the memory the next morning exhausted and lonely. Supposing she ought to make good on her thought about the daedra cult attack, Mehra tugged her armor on and made her way through the city toward Dragonsreach.

As she passed through the Cloud district, a lovely, flowery smell drifted by on the wind.

Mehra glanced toward the nearby homes, but didn't see any flowers that could be making the smell – some lavender, yes, but the smell definitely wasn't that. She inhaled again, wondering if she just passed by someone with a wonderful perfume. It was a great smell, whatever it was.

She turned to see a man staring up at the branches of the dead tree in the center of the courtyard. What was he looking at, anyway?

Mehra squinted up at the Gildergreen. Were those buds on there? She could have sworn the tree was dead. Pursing her lips, she approached to get a closer look.

The smell was stronger here. Somehow, the tree blossomed again. A miracle, perhaps? How wonderful for Whiterun, then!

Happy that something nice happened for a change, Mehra left the tree, jogged up the stairs to Dragonsreach, and announced herself to the guards posted out front. She was surprised when they let her in after quickly checking with the Jarl; she expected to have to wait a few days for an audience.

Mehra stepped into the keep, blinking in the dim light. Slowly, she walked up the carpeted foyer toward Jarl Balgruuf's throne where he sat, accompanied by his advisers.

She couldn't help but notice how tired he looked. But, as she approached him, he sat up and gave her the best smile he could muster. Even his advisers – Farengar, Proventius, Hrongar, and Irileth, looked exhausted.

“Dragonborn!” Balgruuf said. “It is good to see you. And, of course, it is good to see that you are well-fed, now.”

Irileth smirked behind him. “Like a corn-fed deer, Dragonborn.”

“I don't follow,” Proventius mumbled.

Hrongar crossed his arms and sighed. “A corn fed deer,” he said. “One who has been eating the best food from the farmer's field. They're the biggest and strongest deer.”

“Oh,” Proventius said, “well, that makes sense. A common expression, perhaps?”

“Country-common,” Jarl Balgruuf laughed. “Now, you wanted to see me for something, Dragonborn?”

Mehra nodded. “I'm not a person to pry,” she said, “but I merely wanted to offer my assistance in case you need help investigating this attack on the Temple.”

The Jarl's expression steeled, and he made a motion with his hand. Immediately, the courtesans and half the town guard shuffled out of the room. As soon as they were gone, he put his hand to his forehead and sighed deeply.

“Your qualifications, Dragonborn?” he asked. “No offense, but I do have a Court Wizard.”

“None taken,” she replied. “And certainly none meant to Farengar. He is an excellent scholar. My qualifications are thus: I am of House Telvanni of Morrowind.”

Irileth swore under her breath and Farengar crossed his arms.

“That's the Great House of Mage-Lords,” Farengar offered. “They're exemplary wizards, though they jump head first into the unethical and dark arts.”

Jarl Balgruuf nodded. “You saved our city from a dragon,” he said. “So, I suppose we will let you in on the particulars of what happened. The guards knew it was an evil attack, so they sent for Farengar immediately.”

Farengar rubbed his face, the dark circles under his eyes apparent. “Disturbing what happened there,” he said. “Everyone dead in a gruesome manner. Entrails tacked up like garland, bouquets of organs arranged in vases. The only clue we have is the writing in blood on the walls: 'God walks'.”

Blessed Azura! Who would have done such a thing?

“This must be the work of a daedra,” Farengar continued. “A powerful one. My Jarl, I worry about that sword –”

Jarl Balgruuf held his hand up to silence him.

A sword?

Someone was trying to get Mehra's attention, perhaps. Either that, or they didn't like her presence there and wanted to mark the city. Or, they didn't like Sheogorath in the city.

It could be Molag Bal, who loved torture. Mehrunes Dagon, who hated Erich, perhaps? Though Nocturnal was the enemy of Azura, she didn't tend to make such violent gestures.

A sword. Clavicus Vile's Umbra sword, perhaps?

“Heimskr can bless the Temple after cleanup,” the Jarl sighed. “He may not know all of Kynareth's rites, but he is certain to do it with respect. And I know that he will be fearless and relentless in protecting what is left of our temple.”

Mehra pursed her lips. They were still cleaning up the mess. She couldn't imagine how awful the scene must have been.

“It is not my nature to presume,” she said, “but for what it is worth, my services in this time of crisis are yours, without charge. I am much more than a blade, my Jarl.”

“That is very appreciated,” Balgruuf replied. “And I fully believe that you are a person of many talents, Dragonborn. You know about daedra, then?”

“I do, my Jarl.”

Farengar leveled her with a hard look. “Whatever nasty thing is lurking in there,” he said, “if it is still around, might make mincemeat of you. And if it does –”

“Farengar,” Jarl Balgruuf said.

“If it does,” he continued, “the dragons will run amok and –”

“Farengar.”

“I'd die before I'd let that happen.”

Mehra nodded slowly. His reasoning was sound.

“Dragonborn,” Balgruuf said, “you're a very valuable asset to Whiterun, and Skyrim at large. Let me have a discussion with my officials in private. Farengar has a point, but you do as well.”

She bowed at the waist. “Of course, Jarl Balgruuf,” she said. “And I will respect whatever judgment you come to.”

With that, he dismissed her from court. Mehra left Dragonsreach, overhearing a resounding 'absolutely not' from Farengar. As the doors to the keep closed behind her, Mehra let out a deep sigh of frustration.

Really, how arrogant was she that she had to go in and offer her 'expertise' to them? Azura – the kindest of the daedra – was her mother. She was part of Mephala's assassin cult, the Morag Tong, two hundred years ago. She had sex with Sanguine. And she happened to know Sheogorath's secret identity and that there was a seventeenth Daedric Prince.

That did not count as 'expertise'. She was no exorcist. She wasn't even a conjurer. If there were a malevolent force in there, what would she do? Bop it in the nose with Sanguine's Rose? Poke it with the Fork of Horripilation? Use Azura's Star as a throwing star? Did it even have a physical form?

The cloying scent of flowers broke her out of her thoughts, and she stared up at the budding Gildergreen once again.

“Well, thank goodness for that, at least,” she grumbled.

“Isn't it something?”

Mehra turned to see Aela standing at the edge of the stream that ran around the tree, gazing up at the new buds.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Can you imagine how it'll smell when the buds open, if it's this fragrant already?”

Aela nodded slowly. “Vilkas will sneeze up a storm, but I adore it. Don't spread it around that I like flowers though, alright?”

Mehra laughed and walked over to her. “What?” she said. “Flowers aren't part of the Harbinger uniform?”

“Not mine,” Aela said. “More flowers for your friend Erich then, right?”

Ah. Yeah. Erich.

Flowers were a new habit of his.

She knew a lot about him. Too much, even. And after two centuries of being apart, she remembered more about him than she did about magic. It spoke volumes about what they once were.   
  
His favorite food was apples, with grapes following in a close second. He preferred wine to mead and far above that was hard liquor. He was always up at dawn, always sprung out of bed in a cheerful mood. He preferred to sleep nude and on his back– arms and legs wide open; a surprisingly light sleeper, and very quiet. But he made sure to keep himself clothed for her in a strange display of modesty. There were enough rumors about his way of sleeping around that it was peculiar.

He was damn good at braiding his hair. Somehow, her hands remembered an old, Chimeri style and she taught it to him. He wore it when they traipsed around Cyrodiil, confusing old Mer and scholars alike. It frustrated him that he was never able to grow a beard and that his body hair was sparse – a shameful thing in Nord culture – but he always said that he made the best with what he had. The people of Cyrodiil certainly didn't find him unmanly.

He collected blades of all sorts. He had a small orchard of fruit trees out back of his tower; he told her that trees were easier to care for than other plants because they were less commitment and his itchy traveling feet could leave them be for weeks on end with no consequences.

He had the compulsion to spoil her with the finest of everything he could find, despite the fact that she was one of the wealthiest people in all of Morrowind. He constantly decorated her with trinkets, especially those of daedric origin; an attempt to add to her dremora costume. He always presented them to her by kneeling as if a knight before a lady. And there was something that made them constantly kiss – some kind of strange, magnetic force that she certainly knew yet refused to name.

Once a month, he held vigil for those who passed: his parents, Lucien, Martin, Raminus, Hannibal Traven, the Bruma Chapter, and countless others – a sea of candles in the window bench at the top of the tower. She didn't understand all the tears he shed over the whole thing – such an emotional man, he was – as what little tears she shed were of rage at the time.

Death seemed to follow him everywhere. It was a wonder she didn't die after meeting him.

And maybe, just maybe, he'd be the death of her yet.

“You seem very burdened, Sister,” Aela said.

Mehra blinked and shook the thoughts from her head. “I am,” she admitted. “By what was and what cannot be. And I am not one to drown my sorrows in drink.”

“Let's go for a hunt, then,” she said. “I've been thinking about what you said earlier about the silence of the mind. I find it in the stillness of nature when I hunt with my bow. Maybe it will help you reach the stillness you desire.”

“I'd love to hunt with you, Aela,” Mehra sighed. “I could use some time to clear my head.”

Together, they left the city and made for the wilds.

Mehra wondered, though, if she ought to just go off to Solstheim a bit early. After all, things seemed to work themselves out quite well after she visited there.

At the very least, Neloth provided her with an amount of clarity nobody else had before in her life.

 

* * *

 

Damn, but this book was obtuse. Was that – was that Dwemeris in the margins? Since when did someone who knew Dwemeris get their hands on his precious book? Because he could have sworn that he read this one before.

Neloth sat back in his chair and rubbed his beard in thought. Hm, well that wouldn't do. Dwemeris: he was awful at Dwemeris. Baladas would have known it or –

Or, old Divayth Fyr. In fact, he kept a secret dwemer in his little corprus cellar. Was that dwemer even alive? Surely, Mehrunes Dagon would have passed the bloated thing by. Starvation was more likely.

Alright, well, since everyone was dead – and even if they weren't, nobody in the House actually communicated with one another – he'd have to do it himself.

“You seem lost in thought, Master.”

Neloth peered up from the book to glare at Talvas.

“I am never 'lost', Apprentice,” he scowled.

“Of course, Master,” Talvas replied. “I was simply using an idiom. My apologies.”

Bullshit.

Hm.

“Talvas,” Neloth said, “do you know any Dwemeris?”

Judging by the boy's wince, he supposed not.

“It has been well over a century since I've read any,” Talvas admitted. “More like a century and a half. That was when I had my basic class, I think.”

Neloth closed the book, stood, and brought it over to Talvas' desk.

“Then you need to brush up, Apprentice,” he said. “This is in –”

He opened the book and scanned through it.

“Well, it's something,” he mumbled. “Do your best. Write a translation for it, and give the translation to me.”

As Talvas received the book, he gave him a look that said that he knew exactly what he was doing. The kid was too smart, sometimes. Thankfully, he wouldn't gripe about it like Ildari. He'd just do his work, knowing that whatever Neloth asked of him, it could only serve to better him.

That was the point of an apprenticeship, after all.

The front door to the tower opened, sending a rush of ashy air inside. It closed with a slam, and as the idiot who allowed such a thing to happen traveled up the levitation portal, he prepared to give them a piece of his mind.

The offender quickly appeared over the railing and landed on the main floor.

Hm. Varona? Allowing the door to slam was an odd thing for her to do. It must have been one of her silly, subtle revenge plots.

“Didn't expect to see you back from your ash spawn experiments so soon,” she said.

Ah, there was the excuse. As good of one as any, he supposed. Sneaky s'wit.

“Anyway, you have a letter, Master,” Varona said, “on your table as always.”

Neloth frowned and trudged his way over to the table. If it was Aryon again, he would torch the letter outright. He picked up the letter and paused when he saw the seal of the moon-and-star on the outside. Perhaps, this wouldn't be as unpleasant as he first suspected. Breaking the seal, Neloth took in the Nerevarine's childish scrawl which masqueraded as penmanship.

_Master Neloth,_

_I hope you are in good health, and that your research continues to go well. My own studies have gone smoothly; I'm much more capable than I have been before, and have some new information on lycanthropy, of sorts._

_Things have been difficult lately, here in Whiterun. The news has likely spread across part of Skyrim, but likely hasn't reached Solstheim yet: Kodlak Whitemane, Harbinger of the Companions, was assassinated. Though we have taken revenge and the Companions are safe, it has been a trying time._

_I regret that I have not asked permission for such things, but I wish to burden you with my presence in two weeks' time. I hope that if Talvas and Varona make another trip to Raven Rock, that they are not caught in an ash storm on their return. It is much better that they stay safely in Raven Rock if such things do occur once again, even if it may delay their return._

_Perhaps, when I arrive, we can continue my lessons in staff enchanting. I am most eager._  
  
\- Mehra

Neloth coughed, refolded the letter, and slid it into his personal cabinet. She was 'most eager'.

Well, then. He couldn't deny an eager pupil, could he?

“What is it, Master?” Varona asked.

Neloth blinked and shook his head. “The Nerevarine wrote ahead. She will be arriving in –”

He frowned, took the letter out of the cabinet, unfolded it, and looked at the date of the writing.

Oh.

“Soon,” he answered. “One week.”

“Will you need supplies?” she asked.

He didn't break eye contact as he folded the letter and put it back in the cabinet. “Not now,” he replied, “but soon. In seven days.”

“The roads are dangerous, Master. May I bring Talvas?”

“You may.”

Varona smirked. “Thank you, Master. If possible, I'd like a list of supplies in one week. We will leave then.”

With that, she turned and left the tower to go to her quarters. Neloth doubted Varona in the beginning, but she was proving quite adept at helping him hide his affairs.

His affairs.

Mehrunes Dagon's extra arms, he had a mistress. He couldn't think of the last time he'd done such a thing!

Well, it was good. If the world was to end, then at least he'd have a bit of fun before dragons purged it in fire or some such nonsense.

 

 


	30. Chapter 30

Content warning: The last section gets a bit sexy, but it's more of a rated R sexy. Non-explicit.

 

* * *

 

 

_Being smart doesn't hurt. And a little luck now and then is nice. But the key is patience and hard work._

 

* * *

 

The letter asked her to come up to Dragonsreach, and to be discreet as she did so. She couldn't begin to guess what they'd ask of her.

If it came to helping with the Temple, she'd figure something out. She always did, after all. Though downing a dozen or so potions in order to succeed didn't seem likely to help her in this case, and she wasn't as creative as Erich at solving problems.

Well, he wouldn't have known what to do with an angry spirit, daedric or otherwise, either. New-Erich certainly would, but she didn't expect him to just stop by right after what happened. That, and withholding information seemed to be a new hobby of his.

Neloth would likely know and readily divulge the most knowledge. Really, it was a shame that he didn't get out more; his observations on ruins, monuments, and the like would be fascinating.

Regardless, she figured – hoped, really – that whatever Jarl Balgruuf wanted her to do was something she was capable of doing. She was covered on a lot of skills: stealth, strength, and magic.

If it had nothing to do with the paranormal nor delicate matters of the heart, she'd be perfectly fine.

Mehra ate a hasty breakfast then geared up to make her way up to Dragonsreach as the sun rose in rays of gold above the awakening city. As she stopped in front of the keep's front doors, one of the guards immediately opened the door and ushered her in.

Irileth stood directly inside, her hands crossed behind her back. She gave Mehra a quick nod as she entered, and motioned for her to follow.

“Timely as usual, Dragonborn,” she said. “Appreciated. The Jarl wishes to speak to you in private.”

She led her toward the end of the sunlit hall, the scratchy sound of a lone servant sweeping the floor echoing throughout the empty room. They walked past the throne and through an archway toward a short flight of stairs that led to a small war room overlooking the hall.

A quick glance toward a table in the center of the war room told Mehra that Balgruuf kept a wary eye on the positions of both the Imperial and Stormcloak troops. Maps of Skyrim and Tamriel lay scattered across the table, marked with red and blue flags.

Irileth led her through a door on the far side of the room. A pair of guards posted on the other side of the door snapped a quick salute as they made their way across the large hall beyond. Like the rest of Dragonsreach, this area was pristine. A long, teal and gold carpet ran the length of the lower level, its golden threads glistening in the morning sunlight. Her eyes drifted toward the display cases against the wall and wondered if she'd have time to catch a peek later – if she wouldn't look suspicious doing so.  
  
The scent of lavender from the planter in the middle of the hall drifted her way as she climbed the stairs to the upper level of the hall. They rounded the corner of the landing on the stairs, the nearby banner of Whiterun fluttering behind them as they passed. Irileth ushered Mehra in through the door at the top of the stairs, past a table where servants cleaned up breakfast, and toward a room to the right where Jarl Balgruuf sat at a desk, reading over some papers.

Irileth closed the door behind them and took her post at the door. The weary Jarl looked up from his papers and rubbed his eyes.

“Thank you for coming at short notice, Dragonborn,” he said. “Please, sit down.”

Mehra pulled the chair out in front of the desk and sat. It was a tidy office, sparse in decoration save a pair of weapons mounted to the walls. Mostly, the Jarl's office was covered in walls lined with rows upon rows of books, some of which looked ancient.

“Did you see the buds on the Gildergreen?” Balgruuf asked. “At least we have that, now. It's a miracle after what happened in the temple.”

Mehra nodded. “They are lovely,” she replied. “Very fragrant. I'm not sure what color they are, though. Probably too early to tell.”

“The tree has pink blossoms,” he said. “With deep purple leaves. It truly is a sight to behold. I will have to go down to see it, perhaps this morning, if time permits it.”

The Jarl glanced behind Mehra and raised his eyebrows. Turning, Mehra saw that Irileth leveled him with a questioning look.

“My concern is for your safety, of course,” Irileth said. “Since the crowd is small in the early morning, perhaps we can go soon. I must accompany you, my Jarl.”

He shook his head and put his chin in his hand. “I know, Irileth. But, let's move on to business. This is a grave concern.”

Mehra nodded, scooting her chair closer.

“My son, Nelkir, hasn't been himself lately,” the Jarl frowned. “And I worry, especially after this attack on the temple, that it is something very foul.”

Mehra pursed her lips and exchanged a hardened look with Irileth. The Housecarl seemed to think something was amiss, as well.

“He won't talk to anyone,” Balgruuf sighed. “I'm certain that nearly everyone in the keep has attempted to talk to him about what is bothering him. Honestly, I am grasping at anything right now. I don't know if he'll talk to the Dragonborn – a hero – but it is possible.”

Mehra peered out the window in thought, watching as pair of birds flew over the sunlit city.

Oh, no. Heart matters? She certainly didn't have the skills for this. But goodness, he was just a child. Mehra supposed she did fine with the last child she attempted to console – Aventus Arentino.

She nodded quietly. She'd do it. Mehra hated the label of 'hero'. She never felt like one, given her selfish intentions in the past. But if a child looked up to her and didn't see what she saw – broken, old, worn out, desperate for joy, desperate for normal – then it was worth a try, even if she had to wear the label she didn't deserve for a moment.

“He's always been quiet,” the Jarl explained. “But lately, he's become brooding – violent, even. If you're able to draw out the truth, I would be immensely grateful.”

“I will do my best,” she replied.

He gave her a sad smile. “That's all that I ask. You will likely find him on the upper floor of the main hall, keeping to himself. He's a small boy with brown hair – wearing red, today. You're free to go about Dragonsreach without escort; the staff knows who you are.”

“I'll go now, then,” Mehra said.

With that, she pushed her chair back, stood, and made her way to the door. Irileth gave her a stern nod as she opened the door for her. Quickly, Mehra descended the stairs and left the keep's private area. As the hall door closed behind her, she let out a deep sigh.

Her eyes landed on the war room table once again. Seeing nobody around, Mehra walked over to it and took a look at the markers dotting the map.

Stalemate.

They had the same amount of cities and similar troop counts. Nobody seemed to be at a tactical advantage. Red and blue were completely even.

And there, in the center of the map, was neutral Whiterun. The war hinged on the city, and on Jarl Balgruuf.

She was a dumb orphan kid; she had no business knowing battle tactics. But from a glance, she simply knew it from the merit of her past life. Sometimes it was helpful; sometimes, it was simply disturbing.

Shaking her head, Mehra stepped away from the map and wandered away from the table. She walked across the empty upper level of the empty keep's main hall, silencing her footsteps as best she could to avoid detection.

Hopefully, she could find Nelkir before he saw her and decided to hide. Why would he want to deal with a stranger, after all?

Mehra found him where his father said he'd be, sitting against the railing that overlooked the lower floor. He dangled his legs between the rungs of the banister that ran the length of the upper level, while his hands gripped them in a way that disturbingly reminded her of a prisoner behind bars.

He ignored her completely as she approached and didn't turn to acknowledge her, even as she stopped next to him.

“Nelkir?”

“So, he sent you to talk to me,” he scoffed. “One day, I'll tear his face apart so he can leave me alone. My father doesn't know anything about me, but I know about him. Oh, I know so much.”

Oh, my.

Mehra peered at him to see if she could detect any signs of possession, and to her untrained eyes, she saw nothing out of the ordinary.

So, what? The kid was just a brat? She had a hard time believing that a man like Jarl Balgruuf wouldn't attempt to raise his children properly.

She sat down next to him and crossed her legs. Mehra wasn't going to be leaving anytime soon. From the irritated glance Nelkir gave her, she knew that he knew as well.

“Alright,” she replied. “So, what do you know?”

Nelkir smiled and began to swing his legs. “He worships Talos. He hates the Thalmor almost as much as Stormcloaks do. He's worried about being chased from Whiterun. That – that I don't have the same mother as my brother and sister.”

He shot her a smug look and Mehra shrugged.

“None of that surprises me,” she said. “It's all reasonable. Try again.”

Nelkir blinked at her in confusion. His legs stilled. “The Dragonborn who lives in this city is –”

“Me,” Mehra laughed. “I am the Dragonborn. Nice to meet you, by the way. My name's Mehra.”

“You're the one she told me about,” he awed. “She said – well, she said I better hope you're as strong as you look.”

Mehra turned to him and chuckled. “Well, I'm not a Nord,” she replied. “But, I can breathe fire.”

Well, she could speak fire, technically.

“Who is 'she', Nelkir?” Mehra asked.

His eyes widened in terror. He'd been caught.

“You're not in trouble,” she said. “I've seen a lot of stuff – undead, daedra, dragons. I'm curious.”

Nelkir sighed, tucked his legs in, and turned to face her.

“This castle's old,” he explained, “there are places where nobody's been in a while. Places where you can hear things, see things – and, the Whispering Lady.”

Mehra nodded. “Fascinating. Where can I find her?”

“If you go to the keyhole in the basement and listen to it,” he shrugged, “maybe she'll talk to you. She's behind the door, there. She won't tell me her real name. All I know is that she knows a lot.”

Hm. So, this 'Whispering Lady' was likely the source of Nelkir's violent ideas, as well as his secrets. The things that this person or entity told him weren't shocking secrets, really.

Mehra's face softened. “A bit of advice,” she said. “The secrets you know about your father are likely true, but they do not tell the future – only fears of a possible future. And one of his biggest worries is you, Nelkir. Do you really hate him so much?”

His head jerked violently and his eyes screwed shut. In the next second, a stillness overcame him, and he opened his eyes slowly.

“No, I don't,” Nelkir said.

Hm. She was wrong. There was some sort of influence on him before; she just hadn't seen it. And now, the entity – this 'Whispering Lady' – knew that she was here.

It wanted her to go to the basement.

“Try to go talk to him,” Mehra said. “Maybe you two can go see the Gildergreen together; it's starting to bloom. You're too young to start building up regrets.”

He looked down at the floor and sighed. “You're probably right.”

With that, Nelkir stood and shuffled down the hall toward the private area of the keep.

Once he was gone, Mehra gathered herself and took the stairs down the main floor, mouthing a prayer to Azura as best she knew how –

Which, honestly, wasn't at all, unless she had a bit of a memory decide to pop up and remind her how to do Azura's rites. She supposed she ought to stop in to the Temple at Raven Rock when she went to Solstheim next, in order to hopefully get an education of sorts.

Sighing, Mehra wandered around the main floor of Dragonsreach until she found a set of stairs that led downward. She descended into the cool basement of the ancient castle and glanced around.

A small seating area for servants sat off to the side, flanked by various baskets, urns, and crates. Cleaning supplies dominated the left half of the room, as well as a door. In front of her, however, on the far end of the wall, was a door surrounded by storage crates. In front of it lay a small pile of hay, and it looked as if it hadn't been disturbed in a long time.

No, it had; there was a sweep in the hay from the door having been opened, but only small enough that a child could fit through.

Realizing that she found her door, Mehra mumbled another quick prayer asking for protection to Azura and made sure to include Boethiah and Mephala for extra measure.

She hadn't been this intimidated by a task in a long time.

Mehra approached the door, pulled it open, and stepped inside. Beyond was another storage area full of crates and baskets. And there, at the end of the cramped storage room, was a door covered in what looked to be old, dried blood.

This had to be the door.

Steeling herself, Mehra cast a quick spell to detect magical traps and saw nothing. She cast a spell to detect life and saw nothing in the room beyond. Finally, she cast a spell to detect undead and again saw nothing.

With nothing to go on, Mehra approached the door and put her hand up to it before she could talk herself out of taking care of this problem.

The disembodied sigh on the other side of the door made her jump.

“At last! I've been waiting for someone more capable to carry out my will. The child is spirited but lacks agency.”

The entity's voice made her scramble to drop to one knee. She heard this woman's – if she could be called such – voice before, somewhere.

“It's you,” the voice chuckled. “I knew you'd be along eventually.”

Mehra bit her lip. “I am an old mortal,” she said. “Pardon, but please remind me of your name.”

The Whispering Lady laughed. “I am Mephala, little shadow.”

She breathed a deep sigh of relief, and her hand slid down the front of the door. Mephala was here. Of course, Mephala could be very dangerous to mortals; she knew this well.

“Do you need something, Lady Webspinner?” Mehra asked.

“I certainly do,” Mephala said. “Within this room is a treasure of mine. It should not be locked away. Break it free, and it will belong to you.”

She nodded and leaned in to examine the lock. Hm.

“I'll see if I can get it open by hand,” she murmured. “If not, I might be able to steal a key.”

Mehra sighed again as she slung her pack down and dug around for her lockpicks.  
  
“Oh, I am so glad it's you,” she said. “I don't know the first thing about exorcisms or anything.”

Surely, Mephala was a sign of good favor. She never overtly showed herself, after all; it was quite the treat that she chose her to break her sword out, let alone decided to speak to her.

“Do you feel safe, mortal?” Mephala asked.

Mehra put a pick and tension wrench into the lock and swore when the pick broke on the first tumbler. This would be a tough one.

“No,” she answered.

“Good,” Mephala chuckled. “I am not safe.”

She worked quietly on the lock, going through almost her entire bag of picks until the lock finally opened with a click. Relieved that she wouldn't have to steal the key from someone, Mehra grabbed the handle, turned it, and pushed the door open.

The room beyond was empty, save a dusty table at the back. Casting a hasty light spell, Mehra approached the table and peered down at the sword on it.

This was the Ebony Blade. Erich used to have it. Strange how she had two of his former weapons, now.

Well, technically, daedric artifacts were always on loan to mortals.

“My Ebony Blade,” Mephala sighed. “Free at last. Just under two hundred years ago, it was stolen from Frostcrag Spire and ended up sealed within this keep. It has been a dark secret of the Jarl and his Wizard for a few generations. But, not anymore, Incarnate.”

So, Erich's tower – the LaChance estate in the mountains – got plundered. It was a bit of a shame, but she figured he didn't need any of those things, nor did he have much of an attachment to them anymore.

“You stare at it,” Mephala said. “Go ahead; take it.”

“I – yes, Lady,” she replied. “I've many memories tied to this weapon.”

“I know, mortal,” Mephala said. “Your lover carried it. You watched him kill dozens with it. Do you not remember seeing the strength of his arms as he beheaded his foes with it? His breath harsh against the stillness of the ruins you plundered? The drops of sweat on his brow? How sensual – how poetic. You must take it; you must behead and pant and sweat the same.”

Mephala was Queen of the Eight Shadows of Murder and Prince of Sex; of course the idea of her blade shared between lovers was an appeal to her. And Mehra quite liked the idea of carrying part of someone she cared about with her.

Mehra reached forward and grabbed hold of the blade. The familiar malevolent aura it exuded made her hair stand on end, yet strangely comforted her at the same time.

She was once one with Mephala's cult, at one time. It felt good to have this piece of Mephala and Erich with her.

Drawing the blade from its sheath, she examined it and saw that the blade had fallen into disrepair. It needed a bit of care – some sharpening, a bit of oil, and some wax. She'd need to buy extra from Eorlund; she certainly didn't have enough in her bag.

“It rounds out my kit beautifully,” Mehra said. “Truly. A mid-length blade is exactly what I needed and the balance on this one– oh so good. Fixing her up will be a few hours long project, but each piece I carry has to be in perfect condition.”

“I figured so,” Mephala said. “You are meticulous, Shadowchild.”

She sheathed the sword next to her Skyforge steel blade, then glanced back to the table. There, covered in a layer of dust, was a scroll. Mehra unrolled it and gave it a quick read, shrugging when she realized that it was a warning against taking the blade out of the room.

It was fine; everything would be fine.

Except –

“Permission to ask a question?” Mehra asked.

“Go on, mortal.”

She tossed the note back onto the table and coughed as a cloud of dust billowed up. Slapping the errant motes away from her face, Mehra shook her head.

“The child,” she said, “is he out of your influence now? Are you going to leave him?”

“I shall leave the boy alone,” Mephala declared. “After all, the blade is free. That was my goal.”

Mehra bowed before her. “That is very appreciated, madam. I shall spill blood of man, mer, and dragon with your sacred weapon. And wearing your name is an honor, of course.”

“Yes, how many artifacts do you have, mortal?” Mephala drawled.

“Including yours,” Mehra mumbled, “four. Four-ish. Moon-and-Star is a given, I figure. That might make it five, though.”

“Splendid. You are marked for the shadows, mortal. Wear us with pride.”

She nodded, then turned to glance toward the door. “Another question, madam?”

“I may answer in a riddle, mortal,” Mephala laughed. “Go ahead.”

Alright. That was fair enough. She had pushed it, after all, with asking a question to begin with, much less attempting to hold a conversation with Mephala.

Mehra was under no illusion; she was nothing more than an amusement for Mephala at the moment.

“Lady Webspinner,” Mehra murmured. “I will not presume that the attack at the Temple was your doing, however –”

“Do not concern yourself with it,” Mephala said. “Really, do not. You cannot reverse the deed. And if you knew who was responsible, how could you stand against them?”

She sighed quietly. “Erich stood against it.”

“Martin took care of Mehrunes Dagon, child,” Mephala replied. “Your Champion merely made him angry. Focus on Alduin, for everyone's sake, including mine.”

Wow. Well, perhaps she was more than a distraction. Mephala did know more than even her own kin, in many cases.

Mehra sucked in a deep breath. No pressure, right?

“Yes, ma'am,” she sighed. “I will focus on Alduin.”

“Ah!” she chuckled. “Your respectful tone is refreshing, Incarnate. Well done.”

“I was a fool,” Mehra admitted. “Thank you for understanding, and thank you for your forgiveness, Lady Webspinner.”

“I should tell Boethiah of this!” Mephala said. “My sibling will be most pleased, little shadow. They liked your little stunt in the embassy. Do more of that, and you're bound to get Boethiah's attention. I don't think anyone has their special armor, right now.”

“You see threads of fate,” Mehra mumbled. “Do – do you see if there will be another attack like this? These people are good, here.”

Mephala laughed. “No, I don't think so. Especially not with how much – hm – displeasure it has brought.”

“Well, I'm very displeased,” Mehra said.

“Oh, I know!” Mephala chuckled. “I know, child. I am thoroughly amused. Happenings here have been – to my satisfaction and great pleasure. Now, run along, and put my blade to good use.”

With that, the shadowy presence – the hair-raising feeling that was Mephala – disappeared entirely. Grateful that the entire thing went much better than planned, Mehra stepped back through the door, closed it behind her, and made her way through Dragonsreach to find the Jarl.

On her way, she saw Nelkir seated on the steps that led up to the throne, his chin his hands. He looked up as she approached.

“You talked to her, didn't you?” he asked. “You've got the look.”

Mehra nodded. “She gave me her sword. Said she was looking for me.”

“I'm not going to hear from her again, am I?” Nelkir frowned.

“Not likely,” she replied. “But maybe, when you're older, you can find her if you travel to Morrowind and visit a Temple.”

He tilted his head to the side. “She's a daedra, then? Mephala? My dad makes me read books about everyone. Says it's respectful to the subjects of the Hold or something.”

Mehra smiled. She knew there was a reason she liked Balgruuf; he really was an old Empire kind of man – hopefully minus the whole 'abandoning the little guy' bits. His defense of Riverwood had her hopeful, at least.

“The same,” she said. “But I need to find your father, now. Do you know where he is?”

Nelkir nodded and pointed toward Farengar's office.

“Thanks,” Mehra said. “And – well, I don't want to come off like a soppy adult, but I think you're a good kid. I started out in life as an orphan and made some bad choices. Things ended up turning out alright, after I did the right thing. I guess – I guess what I'm trying to say is we can be born into less than ideal circumstances, and those can shape the rest of our lives. I know you're not the heir, Nelkir. But look at your Uncle Hrongar. You, too, will command respect one day. We just have to do the best with whatever we've got, however we can do it.”

“You do sound like a soppy adult.”

Mehra laughed. “Alright. I am. I'll see you around.”

Perhaps, it was one too many attempts at a heartfelt moment. Shaking her head, she left Nelkir to head toward Farengar's office, resigned to the fact that she was indeed quite old and certainly no longer in touch with young people.

Mehra stopped in the doorway and peered into the office. Jarl Balgruuf and Farengar stood over a table covered in scattered papers, talking in hushed voices while Irileth stood off to the side. Making sure she didn't eavesdrop, Mehra knocked on the door frame.

Jarl Balgruuf peered up from the desk, motioned for her to enter the room, then looked back down at Farengar's work.

“And that's what I've gathered, so far,” Farengar said. “But the last part of the prophecy is very difficult to figure out. It's strange that the prophecy was written in dragon tongue – a Merethic era language – during the time of Reman Cyrodiil. It was a nearly lost language at that time, much like the Dwemer language.”

“Any guesses what that would mean?” the Jarl asked.

“I believe it may be pertinent to the Dragonborn,” Farengar said. He turned to Mehra and gave her a nod. “Once I figure out this text, I'll be sure to notify you. This may even be like the Nerevarine prophecy; one never knows. It was very accurate in predicting major events on this continent, at least.”

Jarl Balgruuf lifted his gaze from the papers on the table to give Mehra a smile.

"Something happened,” he said. “My son just came to talk to me. We're going to take a walk together, even. You spoke to him, yes?”

“I did, my Jarl. He – ”

Farengar gasped and pointed at her hip. “Where did you get that sword? That was sealed for a reason!”

“Because it was sealed,” Mehra replied, “the sword's creator was influencing Nelkir in a bid to unseal it. She gets what she wants.”

Balgruuf shook his head and frowned. “Then is 'she' responsible for the attack on the temple?”

“No,” she said. “She told me she didn't do it. And she told me that – and this is very vague – the attack caused 'displeasure' so it is not likely to happen again.”

“Alright, fine,” Farengar grumbled. “But give me that sword. We've got to find another way to seal it up again.”

Mehra took a step back. “No. She gave it to me.”

“What's this?” Farengar frowned. “Please, don't tell me you're a heretic, Dragonborn.”

“I am a traditional Dunmer woman,” Mehra replied. “Though I respect the Nine well enough, you won't see me at Temple on the weekends.”

Jarl Balgruuf raised a brow at her mention of the Nine. “So, who is 'she'?”

“Lady of Shadow, Mephala. I cannot turn her sword over. I'm sorry.”

“That won't be necessary,” he replied. “My son hugged me this morning for the first time in months. But, this absolutely cannot be spread around what happened here.”

Farengar pursed his lips and eyed the sword. “Mephala,” he mused. “I – I don't like this. But, if anyone has to have it, I suppose you're alright.”

“Your support moves me,” Mehra chuckled.

Irileth smirked behind them and shook her head. “Speaking of support, my Jarl –”

“Yes, Irileth,” Balgruuf said. “It is time. Please, fetch Proventius and Hrongar.”

Irileth nodded and disappeared from the room, then returned quickly with the Jarl's two remaining advisers and a woman she'd seen before, but couldn't quite remember. As soon as they were present, Jarl Balgruuf turned to Mehra.  
  
“I've been thinking about this for some time,” Balgruuf said. “We all have. And after today, I'm certain that I have made the right decision. It is my greatest honor to name you Thane of Whiterun.”

Her eyes widened in shock. “I am humbly honored and accept,” Mehra replied. “Do – do I have duties?”

“Help protect us when you are within the city,” he said. “Make decisions that would be in the interest of Whiterun and her people. Basically: do as you have, Mehra.”

Hrongar stepped forward with a medal in his hand. “This rosette marks your station. Wear it with pride.”

He reached down and clipped the medal to the front of the collar of her armor. A glance down revealed a gleaming green ribbon with gold detail, holding a fine gold and silver pendant shaped into a horse – the symbol of Whiterun.

Not a single person in Skyrim would miss the meaning of the medal.

Balgruuf motioned to the steel armored woman in the corner. “Lydia is assigned to be your new housecarl,” he said.

Ah! Lydia! Yes, that was her name. Mehra remembered her being a lovely young warrior, from when she helped get her first set of armor set up, so many months ago.

She put her hands over her mouth as Lydia stepped forward and gave her a salute.

“I – I've got one bed in my house,” she murmured. “Oh, that's so terrible. You can't sleep on the floor.”

“If you need assistance,” Proventius said, “I'd be more than happy to provide –”

“Oh gosh,” Mehra sighed. “No, I've got the money. I'm not stingy; I want her comfortable.”

Lydia laughed. “Whatever you have is fine for me.”

No, it really wasn't. Mehra didn't even like the idea of having to stuff a small bed into the large closet at the top of the stairs for this woman. It wasn't proper. It was rude. Lydia was –

Well, she was, quite frankly, a giantess. She looked like she could be almost as tall as Aela.  
  
“Now, one more bit of business. Shouldn't you have a tower?” the Jarl asked. “Farengar says your people are powerful wizards.”

Farengar winced behind him.

“I ought to, yeah,” Mehra sighed. “I'm using the back table for my staff designs. It's uh – hectic.”

“We do like you here,” he mused. “Well, if you get any thoughts for a larger home, let Proventius and I know. It shall happen, Thane.”

A tower. She hadn't thought of a tower, much less putting one down in the middle of Whiterun. Technically, there was enough room out back of Breezehome to do it, if she purchased the lot where the little old seer lady used to live.

But a tower wasn't a remote possibility without Neloth's help.

She'd have to talk to him about it when she visited next.

 

* * *

 

Another day, another unsuccessful meeting with Second Councilor Arano.

He understood the Councilor's concerns; he didn't like ash spawn crawling around the ancestral tombs, either. In fact, it likely insulted him more than it insulted the Morvayn family.

As Elder of the Temple, it was Othreloth's duty to care for the remains of the ancestors who passed on. Every day, he was to complete the correct rituals in front of each ash pit, leave the appropriate offerings, and say the applicable prayers.

He couldn't even get inside the tombs with the ash spawn in there, much less kill the damned things. He was an old man, for Azura's sake! An old man who had once been a guar-taming ashlander, not a fighter. Were the young Redoran guards that green that they couldn't be sent in to slay the vermin?

The door to the outside opened, a gust of ashy air blowing in. Othreloth glanced over and nearly dropped his bowl of ash yams at the sight of the newcomer.

She was a tall, strong woman, with deep, ebony skin. The entirety of her eyes shone carmine beneath a fearsome, horned helm – the shape of which looked disturbingly like a dragon's skull. Her armor appeared to be made out of a similar material – bone and scale – and from a glance at it, he supposed that perhaps, it really was dragon.

And he sensed a small handful of daedric items on her person, though the only one which stuck out appeared to be the dark, medium sized blade at her side.

“Welcome to the Temple,” Othreloth said. “Are you here to pray, or have you come to pay respects at the Ancestral Tomb?”

The woman visibly shook herself, as if she'd been entranced.

“To pray,” she replied. “I um – I don't know how to, really. Are there books on it? Are there specific prayers? Can you teach me, maybe? I wasn't raised, ah –”

She trailed off and shrugged.

A foreigner wanting to get in touch with her culture?

“I'd love to,” he smiled. “Many are suspicious of Outlanders, but it was the Incarnate who was an Outlander, so I welcome them with open arms, especially those who wish to learn more about us. I am Elder Othreloth, child. What is your name?”

“Mehra.”

She unstrapped her helm and removed it, revealing long, black hair tucked into a bun, as well as a lovely young face. If some of the young, lonely town guard hadn't harassed her yet, they certainly would on her way out of the Temple.

Poor thing, really. She sounded as if she could be of Cyrodiil or High Rock, and the pious there frowned on the sensual. Morrowind – well, Morrowind was quite forward with intimate matters.

“Mehra,” he repeated. “That's a very traditional and common name in Morrowind. Well, I can see that you are a woman of strength. Do you know how we traditionally honor our dead?”

Mehra put her helm on the nearby bench and nodded slowly, a look of recognition crossing her face. “Cremation.”

“Yes,” he smiled. “For us, death is only the beginning. We offer prayers to the Reclamations, as well as our ancestors in their tombs. Through these prayers, it is possible to summon the spirits of our ancestors to aid us if we end up in trouble.”

Mehra nodded again, rapt with what he told her. Perhaps, she could help them with their trouble. She looked strong and quite capable.  
  
“We have been unable to visit our ancestral tombs as of late,” Othreloth admitted. “Those foul vermin – the abominations we call ash spawn – have risen from the ashes of our own ancestors. It is vile. Town guard is stretched thin as-is. So, if you'd like to pray to ancestors, the answer is unfortunately, a 'no' at this time.”

Mehra brought her hand up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and he caught sight of a ring –

A ring decorated with the Moon-and-Star.

She was obviously quite serious about getting in touch with her roots. Such a good, young soul.

“Do you need help?” Mehra said, not waiting for him to ask.

Othreloth breathed a sigh of relief. “We certainly do. And of course, I should have some gold for –”

“Oh, no. No gold. I'll go do it. Which door? I'll go now, even.”

She stepped forward, scooped up her helm, and strapped it on.

Figuring that she knew what she was doing, Othreloth grabbed the key and shuffled over to the door that led down to the basement. He unlocked it as she stood behind him – such an intense presence.

“I'm afraid I have to lock the door behind you,” he said. “If something happens, I can't let them come up here.”

Mehra nodded. “Oh, no worries.”

She made no other attempts to make a plan, nor made mention of a safeword or signal as she entered the tomb. Quickly, Othreloth locked the door behind her and set up a chair next to the door to listen in, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

The young lady agreed to this too quickly.

Othreloth jumped at the sound of a roar deep in the tomb. A muffled voice called out in reply:

“Look, I get it. You're an angry revenge monster. Let's talk.”

She was going to get herself killed like that. Frowning, Othreloth put his hand on the doorknob. Perhaps, he ought to call her back.

“Don't you remember me?” she asked.

What on earth? His hand paused.

“Oh, no,” Mehra chuckled. “I'm not some young fool.”

The ash spawn growled. Othreloth wasn't sure if he believed her, either.

“Whoever you are, controlling my ancestors: you are unwelcome here. Return the souls to Moonshadow, or suffer my wrath.”

The monster roared. He heard crashes, sounds of spells, swords, shouting, and infernal screaming. Othreloth ticked off an itemized list of broken items: candelabra, chair, potion bottle, other candelabra–

A loud crash sounded and he winced. That was the shelf full of urns filled with ancestral ashes.

“House Telvanni sends their regards, scum.”

The following scream made his hair stand on end, then, mercifully, it was silent.

Othreloth clutched at his chest and caught his breath. Shaking, he brought his hand to the door and knocked.

“I heard a loud nose, Sera,” he called.

“It's safe,” Mehra replied. “You can come down, now. It's um, a bit of a mess. I feel I owe a lot of apologies to a lot of ancestors.”

He bit his lip. Well, at least the ash spawn were gone. Sighing, Othreloth opened the door and headed down into the tomb.

At the bottom, Mehra stood in the center of a massive pile of ashes and broken pottery, her weapon sheathed. She didn't appear as if she exerted herself much at all; she certainly hadn't broken a sweat.

Othreloth glanced around at the horrible mess and sighed. “Well, the good thing is that communal burials are very common,” he said. “So the remains in the urns can go in the ash pits. They are one in the afterlife, after all. The Morvayn family and House Redoran at large will be grateful that you have done this.”

“That monster was something else,” Mehra said. “Are they common here?”

“No,” he said. “Well, at least, they are new. We don't know where they came from. But, please, don't worry about that. Come upstairs, and I shall teach you our ways.”

Mehra nodded and stepped forward through the ash. As she reached the edge of the pile, she slipped on a fragment of bone and fell harshly on her knee, the sound of her bone armor slamming against the stone floor echoing throughout the hollow basement. If it weren't for her armor, he supposed it would have hurt terribly.

Othreloth quickly grabbed her hand to steady her and –

Azura beyond! What was that?

His hand made contact with a great daedric power, stronger than any he'd ever felt before. Strange, though; he didn't see anything it could be associated with.

Gingerly, he helped her to her feet, despite her sheepish protest. Once she was to her feet, he motioned toward the door that led upstairs and allowed her to go first. With her back turned to him, Othreloth's eyes slid down to her hand to examine what could possibly give off such a power.

The ring.

There was only one ring with that moon and star design that could give off a daedric power. And, there was only one person who was capable of wearing said ring.

Nerevarine. Hortator. Outlander Incarnate. Chosen Champion of Azura. Dragon-born and far-star marked.

He felt faint. Would his old legs be able to carry him up the stairs, with such heavy knowledge that his heart bore?

She was alive. She was here. Blessed day!

A woman?

How grand! A woman! Mirror of Azura! Nerevar was in the Temple of Raven Rock!

Othreloth led the Incarnate over to the altar and began to lead her through Azura's rites, but for the life of him, couldn't figure out why she'd ask for his aid, of all things. After all, wasn't she Nerevar Incarnate? Wasn't she the closest to the heart of Azura?

Perhaps, this was a test. He wasn't sure. Regardless, he needed to treat her request seriously.

And after she left, he'd have to tell the Councilors that the Nerevarine blessed their House's tomb.

They owed the woman her Hortator's Ring, after all.

 

* * *

 

 

Calls like this were frequent. They made him yearn for the day when all the Councilors had a Mouth who dealt with all of their day to day requests, but really, it was for the best that the Telvanni Councilors have a public face of some sort.

But this guy – this was outrageous.

Aryon rubbed his temples and stared at the scrawny, flea-bitten Bosmer who cowered in front of him. It was too early in the morning for this.

“Run that by me again,” he sighed.

“My name is Malborn,” he said. “I was told that I could find refuge here. Your apprentice sent me.”

He furrowed his brow. That wasn't possible; he just saw her that morning, asleep in bed. Unless this man somehow knew about his affair.

Aryon pursed his lips. He didn't like killing people outright, but he would if he had to. Sevyni wouldn't have known this man, right?

“You have thirty seconds to explain yourself,” he frowned.

The man's eyes widened in horror. “S-she said that you'd know what I meant,” he stammered. “I knew I shouldn't have let Delphine talk me into that nonsense. Didn't even learn that damn girl's name. 'Melisi Drolan' my ass; that was a cover name for her Morag Tong bullshit. Damned Blades and their stupid schemes.”

Blades? Morag Tong? What did they have to do with this? Unless –

No, it couldn't be. Did he dare hope?

Aryon cleared his throat and forced himself to look as impassive as possible. The Bosmer sobered immediately.

“What did this 'apprentice' look like?” Aryon asked.

“She was tall,” he replied, “a bit taller than you. Slim build, but strong. Youthful. Long black hair tucked up in a bun. Dark skin that looked black. Ruby eyes, as you would. Three scars on her left cheekbone under her eye. Looked like someone took a swipe at her some time ago.”

He swallowed. That sounded like her, minus the hair, and that could easily be changed. Could it really be Mehra after all this time?

“Keep talking,” he ordered, his voice hoarse. “Did she have any accessories?”

Malborn tilted his head to the side. “Come to think of it,” he said, “there was a ring of some sort. It was a bit out of place, seeing a nice ring on a poor girl, then later accompanying some tough armor. But rings with a moon and a star on them seem to be popular with a lot of Dunmer, so I didn't think anything of it.”

“Describe this ring.”

“Silver ring,” he shrugged, “no tarnish anywhere, so maybe not made of silver. Silver crescent moon with a gold star on top of it. Not a very lavish ring, but it looked well-made.”

Aryon sucked in a breath. It had to be Mehra. There were many impostors over the years, and none figured the Moon-and-Star correctly; it wasn't the extravagant ring that everyone assumed a lord would wear.

“She traveled with a male Nord,” Malborn continued. “White hair, golden eyes. Also youthful. Charmed everyone he spoke to in a horrifying way. Absolute beast of a man; when they led me through the embassy to the interrogation chamber, I could tell which guards he'd taken out because the bodies were near unidentifiable. Strange that a powerful wizard like him decided to kick everyone's teeth in.”

“A wizard?”

Malborn nodded. “Did a very strange magic. I'm sure you know what it is, but I certainly wouldn't have a clue. She didn't bring any weapons or armor, and he was able to summon them to the chest in front of them. Just put his hand on her forehead and told her to think about who had the armor and where she lived. Then, the armor was in the chest.”

Aryon narrowed his eyes in thought. Oblivion magic? Of course, that would mean daedric ties. Since this was Mehra, Azura may have been involved. But, as a Nord, of all races?

Malborn wrapped his arms around himself tightly. “That man said that I was very safe with him and I believe that I was,” he murmured. “But had that woman not been there, I'm not so sure. There was something wrong about him.”

“Where was this?”

“Skyrim, Sir,” he replied. “I used to serve drinks at parties at the Thalmor Embassy. I let them get in to the party, and then embassy proper to steal documents.”

Aryon let out a low whistle. That sounded like something Mehra would be involved in. But, there was another matter to think about.

“If that man she traveled with truly was a powerful wizard,” Aryon mused, “then why didn't he protect you? Why were you sent halfway across Tamriel to me?”

Malborn shrugged, his eyes wide.

“The answer is simple: He wasn't a wizard. In fact, that wasn't a man. I think that may have been a daedra of some form.”

“A daedra, sir?”

“Yes,” he frowned. “And probably the malicious kind, if you felt so wary of him.”

Probably not Azura, then. What was Mehra getting herself into?

“I believe it, then,” Malborn frowned. “He looked exactly like a person but his personality and looks were so magnetic that everyone nearly ignored the woman he was with, which, to be honest, was a feat. She was a unique looking woman, and the only Dunmer at the party. I'm certain she brought him as a distraction.”

Aryon nodded. It certainly was Mehra.

Mehra finally showed up after all these years. And, instead of coming in person, she sent this man as a refugee to his tower in order for him to stay safe.

That was oddly charitable of her, to be honest. But, two hundred years was quite a while for a young person. Perhaps, she mellowed out.

Aryon fought the urge to laugh. Mehra? Mellow out?

Never.

“Well, Malborn,” he said, “your story checks out, to me. You will remain here under my protection.”

The man sighed in relief, looking ready to collapse. Aryon had been there before; he remembered the time after the Argonians were repelled from Telvanni lands, and how he finally slept well for the first time in many, many months.

“Furthermore,” Aryon continued, “we will use whatever skills you have and shall compensate you for your work. You will stay in the tower proper until we feel that any eminent threats on your life are gone. After then, we will grow a new pod for you, which will be your property. I suggest you change your name.”

Malborn bowed at the waist. “I-I didn't expect such a welcome,” he admitted. “Thank you, Master Aryon. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

Aryon turned his gaze toward the window and out toward the sea – to the west. Somewhere, Mehra was out there, thriving and fighting and getting into mischief as she always had.

“No, Malborn,” he said, “thank you.”

Neloth lived near Skyrim. He'd have to arrange a visit, and from there, start a search.

He didn't want to lose Mehra again.

 

* * *

 

 

She was glad she stopped at the Temple. Certainly, they needed her help. It was worth the small detour on the way to Tel Mithryn.

Mehra unstrapped her helm and began to hand her armor pieces to Varona – she was acting strangely – as she recounted what happened in the Temple.

“And so I told whomever was controlling the creature to get lost,” Mehra said. “Obviously, they didn't take it well. I killed their little ash pet over it.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Neloth shrugged.

Mehra sighed. “I mean, I know that was a Redoran tomb,” she said, “but it's still a tomb. There are bandits all over the place on this island. I figure, if you're not able to kill something fare and square, then you don't have a right to experiment on its corpse. Even then; be reasonable with it.”

Talvas nodded in agreement. “Why were you at the Temple, anyway?”

“I um,” she mumbled, “I don't know how to pray to Azura.”

Neloth crossed his arms, sat back in his chair, and gave her a dubious look.

“How did you ever get on in life before?” he asked.

Mehra put her arms out so Varona could help unstrap her armor.

“Sword,” she said.

Neloth frowned.

“Spell,” Mehra added.

His frown grew.

“Punching, when the first two were illegal.”

Neloth closed his eyes, the look on his face showing that he balanced out at being disappointed in her.

Varona helped unlatch Mehra's chestpiece and pulled it off. Blinking, she leaned in to stare at the medal hooked to the front.

“What's this?” she asked, pointing toward the Rosette of Whiterun.

“My new office,” Mehra replied. “I've been named Thane of Whiterun.”

“What's that?” Talvas asked.

Mehra pursed her lips. “It's kind of like Hortator or Knight-Protector of a county. The Jarl also now knows that I'm of House Telvanni, and told me that if I wished to have a larger home, that we could work something out.”

Neloth crossed his arms and smirked. “So, when are you growing your next tower?”

“Maybe when someone provides me with the spores,” Mehra chuckled.

He made a sweeping gesture to the tower around them. “Spores.”

“Alright,” she grumbled, “but I don't remember how to do it. Any of it. And I didn't really do much of it in the first place; everyone did things for me.”

“We shall discuss the particulars later,” Neloth sighed. “But regardless of how it happens, I believe it to be heinous that there is a Master without a tower. It needs to happen.”

Excellent. She was very glad to have his approval for the matter. In fact, if she could, she'd like him to come along with her in order to oversee the project, if it got approval from the Jarl.

Mehra was quite certain Jarl Balgruuf would approve it, once he found it out it would grow itself; a new construction of that magnitude with traditional building methods could leave the city vulnerable to attack. And, once it was complete and the pod phase began, it could potentially provide a few jobs, as well as some commerce.

At the very least, it would be a tourist attraction.

The outside would be; Mehra wasn't going to let just anyone into her tower, if it was to be built.

And most importantly, it would ally Whiterun with House Telvanni, and by extension, Morrowind. While that seemed to be a good idea to Mehra, she'd have to stress this to the Jarl first. She hoped he was as progressive as he seemed.

The group continued their conversation, with Mehra sneaking glances toward Neloth. They'd gotten to the time where Varona and Talvas would have already left and Mehra –

She'd been thinking about Neloth the whole time she walked over to the tower. She was already a bit wound up.

But, still, they kept talking for another hour about all sorts of things, while Mehra's patience began to wear out. The continual knowing looks from Neloth certainly didn't help.

By the time Varona and Talvas left for Raven Rock, Mehra was ravenous. Once the door clicked behind them and they were truly alone, something snapped. They tore at each others' clothes in desperation from waiting too long to be quenched.

Neloth yanked her pants down as far as her boots would allow them to go then hoisted her onto the table, all but tossing her onto a pile of ancient papers. He savaged her on top of the table, swearing under his breath as he repeatedly slammed into her.

By the time they finished, her throat was sore, and her body was covered in a layer of sweat. Mehra lacked the energy to joke about Neloth deserving a reward for his hard work. Instead, she groaned, rolled over, and peeled a sheet of paper off her back before crouching to pull her pants back up.

Her legs shook as she bent them.

Damn, Neloth. Damn.

Mehra caught a glimpse of him from between her legs and narrowed her eyes.

“Quit your smirking,” she groused.

She hastily stood and ignored the head rush that came with it and yanked her pants back into place.

“You're trembling,” he observed.

Mehra turned to him, her eyes traveling to his ever-so-slightly shaking legs.

“You are, too,” she said.

“Am not,” he frowned. “Time to enchant, anyway.”

She followed him toward the enchanting room and rolled her eyes.

“That was a very clumsy dodge,” Mehra said. “Just saying.”

“Dodging what? Do you want your enchanting lesson or not?”

She stood in front of the enchanter and grabbed a blank staff from the bin next to it.

“Well,” Mehra said, “I'm here, aren't I?”

Neloth gave a rare chuckle. “Indeed.”

He watched as she did her work, offering quick corrections every once in a while. Every few minutes, Mehra had a new staff created, with each successive enchantment placed on it growing in strength. She created a dozen or so staves before she turned to Neloth in hopes of feedback of some form.

“I feel this is going well,” Mehra said.

Hopefully, she was right.

Neloth shrugged. “It helps when one is teachable.”

“Oh?”

“I appreciate that you don't act like a nervous git around me,” he grumbled. “It is rare that I am afforded actual conversation. I generally converse with idiots either acting as if I am insane, or so star struck that they cannot form meaningful sentences.”

“Well,” she chuckled, “thank you for calling me not-boring.”

Neloth snorted and waved her off. “If you weren't interesting, I wouldn't have invited you to return, especially not on several occasions.”

It seemed that their arrangement was more than just sex to him. Of course, she felt the same way, but perhaps, Mehra needed to think about what it could mean for them if they both felt this.

Them? She stuffed the thought into the back corner of her mind; there would be no thinking about such things.

“By the way,” Neloth said, “I want to test your blood.”

Mehra nodded and offered her arm without a second thought. The draw was quick and rather painless, and he was able to get a decent sample.

She trusted him to not do any harmful magic with it. Maybe, he'd find something interesting.  
  
“You agreed to that rather quickly,” he mused. Neloth returned from storing the sample to stand behind her to watch her work at her enchanting.

She always felt different. Even before she knew of the Nerevarine prophecies, she dreamed of her past life. It made her wonder about her own identity.

“Who am I?” Mehra asked. “If I am Nerevar, will he wake up one day? And if he wakes up, will I no longer exist? Is Mehra just Nerevar's fever-dream?”

Neloth nestled his nose into the hair tucked behind her ear. “I wouldn't worry about that,” he said. “It seems unlikely.”

Mehra closed her eyes and leaned back against him, stunned yet comforted by his placating lie. Such things were so unlike him. Her heart ached when he stepped back. The place where he spoke against her skin yearned for the kiss that never came.

Mehra bit her lip. They never kissed. This wasn't a romantic arrangement.

He was gentle that night, and had he been someone other than Neloth, Mehra would have suspected him of being apologetic for their rough, frantic earlier coupling.

When morning came, it was as if the moment never happened. They discussed the possibility of growing a tower in Whiterun over breakfast, with Neloth pursuing the technical side of the project. Mehra found herself embarrassed to admit that she had no idea what he was talking about; she didn't know the first thing about mycology.

“I have a thought,” she said.

“Oh, this will be good,” Neloth drawled, taking a sip of his tea.

“How about you come with me?” Mehra asked. “I know for certain that I couldn't do it as well as you would.”

He choked on his tea and Mehra immediately regretted the question. Once he caught his breath, Neloth shook his head.

“I've never been to the mainland,” he said.

What?

“Not once?”

“Never means never,” Neloth drawled.

Her eyes widened in shock. He lived for thousands of years, and the only two places he'd ever been to had been Vvardenfell and Solstheim. He hadn't even been to mainland Morrowind.

She couldn't fathom such a thing. He really was a shut-in.

“Then you have to come with me,” Mehra said. “And you know that it's a fact; I couldn't grow the tower like you could.”

Neloth frowned and narrowed his eyes. “There are people there.”

“No shit.”

“Human people, nonetheless.”

“Really? In Skyrim? You don't say.”

“Human barbarian people.”

Mehra crossed her arms. “Now, I do object to that one,” she said. “There are plenty of intelligent and well read Nords. I know a few of them.”

A silence fell over the table and Mehra sighed. The tower probably wasn't going to happen, after all. She didn't have any solid reason as to why Neloth ought to go to the mainland, except to help her. And if he didn't care enough to help, well–

“I don't like the idea,” he mumbled. “But it really has to be done right. And the Council would kill the project; it's in a foreign land. I view it as an expansion opportunity, personally.”

“Does that mean you'll go?” she asked.

“Reluctantly.”

Mehra let out the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. “Neloth, that means the world to me. Really.”

“I know,” he replied. “And, I assume you will need the levitation portal, given the type of people who will be in your employ.”

Mehra swallowed. Did she dare tell him her greatest shame?

If she ever wanted to learn to levitate again, she supposed she had to, at some point. But, was that time really now, after she just got him to agree to do something so uncomfortable?

Well, he made himself vulnerable for her by agreeing to help, in a sense. Sharing her faults with someone was terrifying, especially someone like Neloth.

But it had to be done. Didn't she like him in the least? He knew some unflattering things about her, already.

“Neloth,” Mehra murmured, “I – I need the portal. I've forgotten how to levitate.”

His jaw dropped in shock. “My, how far you have fallen.”

Mehra buried her face in her hands. Oh, she shouldn't have shared! It was too much of an embarrassment. Who ever heard of a Telvanni Master who couldn't levitate? Even the servants knew how to levitate, back in her time.

“Well, don't cry about it,” Neloth said. “It is a simple spell. A child could cast it. Stand up; I shall teach it to you now, and once you learn, your first task will be to levitate up to the library.”

How did he make things seem so simple? Under his guidance – bluntly-worded though it was – Mehra overcame some of her worst personal inadequacies in her life.

The realization hit her that if she hadn't taken the chance to meet Neloth, she never would have achieved so much in such a short amount of time.

“Thank you, Neloth.”

Thank you for so much – much more than Mehra could ever give voice to.

The thought was terrifying.

He waved his hand in dismissal. “Thank me after you've learned the spell,” he replied.

With that, Neloth stood and directed her to the center of the room. He explained the spell as best he could, as he didn't have the tome for it.

In fact, according to Neloth, it seemed that the tomes for levitation had been all but lost in the eruption of Red Mountain. Levitation, one of the hallmarks of House Telvanni, had been reduced to an oral tradition for newer members.

The going was slow. Despite his brilliance, Neloth wasn't a descriptive person and had difficulty putting the spell into words that she could readily understand. In fact, now that she thought of it, the most creative words that came out of Neloth's mouth were always emotional ones – words said in a fit of rage, a moment of passion, a stroke of brilliance.

After such a long life, Neloth stayed full of fire, whereas Mehra's experiences – her punishment – served to temper that flame.

Fascinating. She wondered how he did it. Perhaps, time had an opposite effect on Neloth.

But he was right; once Mehra got the idea of the spell down, she was able to cast it and use it to its full potential. After proving that she could levitate halfway up to the ceiling, Neloth felt that she remastered the spell.

The hatch to the library was at the top of the tower's vaulted ceiling, and if one didn't know the anatomy of a Telvanni tower, it was entirely possible that they'd miss the door altogether. After swearing secrecy – Neloth was the only one allowed in the library – Mehra followed Neloth up through the air toward the hatch.

Talvas wasn't even allowed in the library. But somehow, she had gained admittance to a place he held most sacred.

As Neloth lifted the hatch and allowed her in to the massive, ancient library, Mehra concluded that perhaps, it was better to go with it and not ask any questions.

In fact, she figured she was better off taking Erich's advice and not think too much on any of it.

 


	31. Chapter 31

A/n: On the delay with this chapter: I have a chronic pain condition. Summer is just very rough on my health... like, very, very rough on my health. Hopefully fall coming will reduce my pain enough that I can think more clearly so that I can write more. That is, until winter comes and messes it up again :/

 

* * *

 

 

_Is the individual shaped and controlled by history? Or can an exceptional individual shape history? Are individuals carried in the stream? Or do they dam and divert the flow? - Hasphat Antabolis_

* * *

 

There was nothing he could personally gain from it. He agreed to it much too quickly.

Neloth sighed and rubbed his temples. He was going to the mainland, straight into the heart of the barbarians' homeland. What a headache.

He assumed that Mehra would handle all the travel arrangements, given that she did such things constantly. It was one thing which Neloth didn't know in the slightest.

And Neloth knew many things. He hated being left at a disadvantage, but at least, the woman didn't make jest at his ignorance.

Talvas was shocked at the news that he'd be leaving for the mainland. Of course, Neloth didn't want to admit that he was equally shocked. The fact that Mehra was able to talk him into it was to be kept as secret as the fact that he allowed her into the library.

Really, he was being a bit too permissive with her. But, how could he not be? She was, in her own words, “not boring”.

Thank Magnus for that.

He gave her some dusty tomes he had in his library – books from the First Era about the invocation of Azura, which she somehow understood to a startling degree. Apparently, Nerevar did indeed inform her consciousness of some things; Chimeris, and, by extension, Ancient Dunmeris, was one of them. He noticed it when he'd first given her his notes, but her ability to read something which was written solely in Ancient Dunmeris confirmed his suspicions.

The look of delight on her face was well worth permanently giving up the ancient and rare books, though the gap –

The gap on the shelf irked him terribly. It was visually reprehensible.

There wasn't much that could be done about it until he found a replacement book for that category. Sighing, Neloth turned back to his research.

Blood had fascinating properties. Mortals, by and large, had the same blood.

Mehra's blood sample was something else. It was definitely diseased, but, when introduced to another blood sample – his own, the fact of which he sure as hell wouldn't share with anyone; it was just alchemy, for Magnus' sake, but it could be taken wrong– the disease remained inert.

So, his hypothesis, based on such a minuscule test, was that the potion Divayth Fyr created not only half-cured the disease, but it also made it so that the disease wasn't communicable.

Which, truthfully, was a great relief. Corprus was passed through blood, pustule weepings, and saliva. He'd taken a bit of a risk allowing her to eat in his home, but, well, it had to be direct contact, from what he read. And he was quite prudent when he lay with her – didn't allow her mouth to come in contact with any part of his person.

Such precautions were no longer necessary, if it was something they decided to partake in. But Neloth didn't see too much of a need to change a system that worked quite splendidly.

He tested a few other things with it. Neloth dropped some disease samples in it: ataxia, blood-lung, brown rot, rabies, rockjoint. He even tested sanies lupinus and sanguinare vampiris against it. Neither common disease, lycanthropy, nor vampirism stood against her blood. It neutralized the invasive agents almost instantly, as expected.  
  
Other than that, there was nothing else in the blood that was remarkable. Each assumption, whether made by prophecy or by himself, was correct.

Now, there was another matter which he wished to study, if at all possible.

Mehra was acquainted with Sheogorath, yes? And he was once mortal.

What type of blood was he walking around with? Was it human, daedra, or mixed? Did the blood of Daedra Lords have special properties as opposed to normal daedra? Neloth had extensive notes on daedra blood from some old vivisections. Would typical phlebotomy instruments be capable of piercing the skin of such a tough creature? The Madgod would presumably have an instrument, if not.

Perhaps, they could arrange a meeting, if Mehra could oversee it. Neloth wasn't sure if he wanted to be alone with Sheogorath, regardless of his past reputation as a 'good person'. And even then, such things were suspect.

What was a 'good person', anyway? Utter drivel. Morality was conditional.

“Is there anything you need me to mind while you're away, Master?”

Neloth looked up from his work to Talvas. Hm, now that he thought of it –

“I believe I have a list somewhere from last time I went out,” he frowned. “Let me find it.”

Pursing his lips, Neloth stood and trudged over to his desk where he kept documents. After a frustrated minute of searching, he concluded that the list must be somewhere else. Perhaps, it was somewhere in the library; it had been quite a while since he had last been out for an extended period of time.

He cast levitation, drifted up to the library, opened the hatch, and closed it behind him. Neloth crossed the expanse of the library toward the archives section where he kept his records and non-academic personal papers.

Searching through the section was easier said than done. Though each folio was clearly labeled, he couldn't remember the last time he'd left his keep to intentionally go on an extended trip of importance. Neloth searched back through the Third Era and found nothing. Likewise, the Second Era had nothing of importance. It wasn't until he reached his First Era records that he found some form of instructions as to the care of his tower while he was away.

Ridiculous.

Shaking his head, Neloth eyed the faded sheaf of paper in the folio and the instructions therein.

_Mrs. takes her tea an hour past noon in the solarium. It is her break from the children- please have the needs of both attended to._  
  
Mrs. will prefer her light robes for the coming month. Her favorites are purple, pink, and teal. Plan accordingly to keep her comfortable against the heat. Make sure there is enough oil to maintain Mrs. hair. 

_Young Master is afraid of the dark. Maintain coda flower in his chambers for every evening._

_Each child is to be read a story before bedtime in absence of their Father._

_Mid-month, place lilies (yellow) at the wash for Mrs. to see in the morning, on Master's behalf. Do likewise for both young Miss- pink carnations. Place extra coda flower for young Master._

_Facilitate older Miss to place flowers at the urns of first and second Mrs. and children as she desires._  
_  
_ _The enchanting chambers are off limits to the children and Mrs. Master promises to skin anyone alive who allows an accident to occur in said chambers. Never is one to leave a soul gem near an unwarded pentacle._

Neloth closed his eyes and exhaled. That was certainly no longer relevant. Gently, he shut the folio, put it back on the shelf, and turned toward the empty library.

He supposed there was nothing to care for in his absence. The tower would be fine without him. Sighing, he left the library and descended back down to the lower level.

“Did you find the list, Master?” Talvas asked.

Neloth shook his head. He found – something. “Just be courteous of my things and refrain from burning the place down.”

“Is there anything I can do, though? Maintenance that needs to be done?”

He rolled his eyes and threw his hands up in frustration. “Scrub the privvy. I don't give a damn.”

Meddlesome. Perhaps, this little trip was a good idea, after all.

He'd get uninterrupted time with Mehra without these people to ruin it.  
  
  


* * *

  
Elder Othreloth watched as Coucilor Morvayn sighed deeply and rubbed at his eyes. Second Councilor Arano stood to his right, equally exhausted, but making an effort to appear alert as best he could.

“Now, why do you need to meet us right after breakfast?” Councilor Morvayn asked.

Oh, they'd be awake soon enough.

“Councilors,” he said, “I have seen the Incarnate.”

Councilor Morvayn blinked at him in confusion. “What? What do you mean by this?”

Othreloth shook his head. He scarcely believed it himself, but it certainly happened. “She stopped in to the temple the other day and cleansed the ash spirits from the Ancestral Tombs.”

Councilor Arano sighed in relief. The whole thing weighed on him, as well, and he hadn't the authority to move soldiers into the Temple without Councilor Morvayn's permission. Redoran had a very strict hierarchy; it wasn't to be messed with.

Had Councilor Arano been in charge, Othreloth had the feeling that the tombs would have been cleared out much quicker, even if they had to bring in outside help to deal with it. Arano would have even brought in Skaal, if he had to; he had a sense of duty and didn't care much for pride.

At least, that was what Othreloth figured of him.

“Yes,” Councilor Morvayn said, “but what is this about the Incarnate?”

“I grabbed her hand,” Othreloth replied. “She wore the Moon-and-Star. I felt the power in the ring.”

His eyes widened in shock. “You're certain of this?”

Behind him, Councilor Arano shared the same look. Othreloth was certain he looked the same when he felt the power of the Moon-and-Star against his hand. He never felt something so incredible in his life.

“As certain as I am of the Reclamations,” he said. “I would not joke, Councilor. I am very serious.”

Councilor Morvayn put his head in his hand and pursed his lips. “Describe this woman to me, please.”

“Tall. Strong. Dark-skinned. Black hair pinned back in a bun. Very well armed. Wears what appears to be dragon armor,” he said. “Makes sense: the Incarnate is Dragonborn, after all. We weren't sure if it was a literal interpretation or if it meant that they were of the Empire of man, but I suppose, both are quite true in this instance.”

“I've seen her,” Councilor Arano frowned. “She knows the Telvanni wizard to the east.”

That explained her telling the ash creature about House Telvanni sending its regards. Perhaps, she was a member, even. It was a bit of a shame, really; the reclusive wizard was known to be cruel. Othreloth spent quite some time casting to heal a trader's shattered arm – the wizard did it, and he did it without using his near limitless well of magicka. Not only that, but he sent the fellow on the road without fixing it.

It was one thing for the wizard to teach the man a lesson, he supposed. It was another entirely to be needlessly cruel. Was this wizard's ego so easily damaged? A man quick to be insulted was a weak one, in his opinion.

Councilor Morvayn pursed his lips. “I am not sure how many around here are aware of this, but Master Neloth has been on the Telvanni Council for an inestimable amount of time. It is certain he declared the Hortator.”

Or, perhaps, the Telvanni Councilor was too old to remember his mortality. Pity, that. It was House Telvanni's key weakness, and it was what cost them nearly everything after the eruption.

Othreloth nodded. “Old ties? Makes sense. She mentioned being of House Telvanni.”

“Incredible,” Councilor Morvayn sighed. “We didn't even know who the Incarnate was anymore, and those who did were mum on the issue. And she's simply returned out of nowhere.”

No, it certainly was not nowhere. Azura was very purposeful in what she did. There was a plan behind the Nerevarine's appearance.

He gave himself a few days to think about it. Othreloth reread the prophecies of the Nerevarine and meditated on them. One phrase that stuck out was the phrase, “Dragon-born”. The dragons were coming back to life, according to the news from the mainland. He wished he had access to some of the old dragon lore, but such things were the stuff of the Blades. And the Blades had been persecuted for centuries since the rise of the Meade Dynasty and the Aldmeri Dominion.

He knew from oral tradition that the Nerevarine was an Empire agent of a sort. The Wise-Woman said that this was done as a way of humbling the Dunmer people; an Outlander from the Empire of man took care of their business. Truthfully, it was what the people deserved after centuries of slavery, divisiveness, and clan warfare.

Now, there was a unified, but highly weakened Morrowind.

“Dragons on the mainland are likely,” Othreloth frowned. “Another sacred calling. Do you have the Ring of the Hortator? She deserves her title. She will need any help she can get.”

Councilor Morvayn shook his head. “I don't, but I know who does. I shall send for it; the ring fortifies one's health, and is meant to provide strength in battle. Hopefully, she doesn't lose this one; none of the Houses are as wealthy as they used to be.”

“I know, Councilor,” he agreed. “And also, I believe we should keep this matter as quiet as we can; if my suspicion on the dragons is correct, her attention shouldn't be divided between them and aiding Morrowind. I believe this to be a possible global catastrophe.”

Councilor Morvayn turned to his subordinate with a clenched jaw. “What do you make of that idea?”

Looking quite helpless, Councilor Arano opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. Knowing how Morvayn was, Othreloth figured that he found the idea of keeping it a secret distasteful. But Othreloth knew he was right; the Incarnate had work to do. Work, he figured, that was bigger than just Morrowind.

“I have an answer, with reasoning,” Councilor Arano replied.

Councilor Morvayn waved his hand and nodded. “You always do. You've very sound reasoning, Adril. This is why you are my Second.”

“Appreciated, Sir,” he replied. “My conclusion: I believe Othreloth is correct. And while the symbol of the Nerevarine is a hopeful one for our people, we must be realistic. What can one person – a single wizard – do for the economic stability of our nation? If she is a Telvanni woman, she will have honorable duty to her House, aside from this dragon business. If we wish to have her, and by extension, House Telvanni, on our side, it would be wise to not burden her with a formal announcement.”

Councilor Morvayn sighed deeply. “Sound reasoning as any. A pity, but it does make sense. We will give her the ring in secret. Now, if there isn't anything else?”

Othreloth gave him a short bow. “No, Councilor, that is all.”

He left Morvayn Manor behind and made his way back to the Temple, hopeful that he'd done the right thing.

Telvanni and Redoran hated each other for thousands of years. If the rumors were true – that she went to Akavir after finishing her divine appointment – then it was possible that she could have the same attitude toward her rival House that she had in the Third Era.

That was assuming, of course, that she had any to begin with. Mehra seemed like such a pleasant woman from the time he spent with her. But, she also had ties to the wizard to the east – a terribly cruel man. It would be awful if he advised the Councilors to provide her with her ring, only to be met with hostility.

Othreloth supposed he'd have to wait and see. He just hoped that she would return to Solstheim sooner rather than later.

 

* * *

 

She dropped the extremely fragile and precious books off at her home, making sure to tell Lydia that they were from the First Era and that they had to be handled with special techniques.

Mehra, of course, offered to show her the handling procedure that Neloth taught her so that Lydia could look at them herself, but Lydia declined. It seemed that she was afraid of ruining the books. Mehra understood that; she was terrified of even breathing near them, much less opening them to have a read.

She rifled through the papers on her desk, grabbed what books and papers were necessary for her classes, and stuffed them into her bag before slinging it onto her back.

“I was told that you're very busy, my Thane,” Lydia said, eyeing her pack.

Mehra sighed and nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “I guess it keeps me out of trouble, though. I need to go to Winterhold to turn in a paper and attend a few classes. I uh – I'm not sure if they allow –”

“No, I understand,” Lydia said. “I can protect your home while you travel. You do not have to explain.”

Mehra eyed the dark blade at her side. She was about to cause a huge stir at the College for having Mephala's Ebony Blade. In fact, she wasn't certain whether or not she'd be able to continue attending with such a dangerous weapon in her possession.

“Honestly, I'll probably get kicked out for having this sword with me,” Mehra shrugged.

Lydia turned her eyes toward the blade and pursed her lips. “Yes, I heard it was of Mephala. Can't you claim religious freedom on it? Would they expel you for your religion? I thought they didn't involve themselves in politics.”

“Damn, you're good,” Mehra laughed. “Yeah, I'll go with that. And Mephala is – well she's not awful, alright?”

Lydia shrugged. “Then there you go.”

Shifting her pack on her back, Mehra motioned toward the door. “I've got to go talk to the Jarl about a possible expansion to the house.”

“I'm right behind you,” Lydia nodded.

Mehra was grateful that her new Housecarl didn't protest the idea of an addition. Aside from the fact that she was a Master Wizard living in a small house, her head of security was living in a room that wasn't much bigger than a closet.

It wouldn't do. People would talk. And while Mehra didn't care much of rumor and court politics, she knew that her status directly reflected on Jarl Balgruuf. The last thing she wanted to do was give him more trouble than he already had to deal with.

She was quite confident that he'd look favorably on her tower proposal, but Mehra couldn't be certain until the whole thing was said and done.

Mehra made her way out of Breezehome and onto the bustling streets of Whiterun with Lydia in tow. As she climbed the hilled city, the scent of flowers drifted on the wind, stronger than she'd smelled them before.

The Gildergreen's buds must have finally opened up.

She shook her head and turned her eyes toward the stairs that led up to the Cloud District.

“I've never smelled anything quite like that,” Mehra admitted.

“Gildergreen doesn't have a smell,” Lydia murmured. “I wonder if something was going on with it before the lightning took it out.”

Mehra shrugged. She honestly didn't know.

Together, they climbed the stairs and stopped at the top when the tree came into view. What in the world?

Lilies and irises did not grow on trees, last she knew.

Oh, Erich. What had he done to the Gildergreen?

Strangely enough, prayers to Kynareth drifted to her ears from underneath the tree. She supposed he wouldn't have liked that, but he wasn't exactly there to stop it.

Mehra cleared her throat and nodded toward the tree. “The Gildergreen doesn't look like this normally, does it, Lydia?”

Lydia shook her head. “It has pink blossoms, my Thane. Or, it had. This is some strange magic. Are those bulb flowers growing out of it? It's completely nonsensical.”

Mehra gave her a weary nod. “Insane, even.”

Dammit, Erich.

Knowing there was nothing she could do about it, Mehra passed through the courtyard, sparing a glance at the blue, purple, orange, and yellow blossoms dotting the tree's bright green foliage.

“It's like a rainbow,” Lydia awed. “Like from a picture from a children's storybook.”

Clenching her jaw, Mehra motioned for Lydia to stay where she was and stormed over to the tree. She reached up and yanked down a flower of each color – purple and blue iris, yellow and orange lily – and examined them closely.

Aside from the overwhelming fragrance, they looked like normal flowers.

“They're not of this world.”

Mehra looked up to see a man in faded brown robes in front of her, his cloak drawn up over his sunburned head. He wore a worn amulet in the distinct shape of a dagger. Hm, this was the priest of Talos.

“No,” she agreed, “they're not.”

“Not of Kynareth,” he frowned. “But I suppose that if people want to offer up prayers to her underneath this tree, then it is for the better.”

Mehra nodded, though she didn't care either way. “Do you think it's harmful?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I've studied them as thoroughly as I can,” he replied. “There's no malevolent aura from them. There's no spell attached to them. They're not poison, save the iris which would be toxic regardless. One wonders what a devil would get out of something like this.”

“Satisfaction of creation?” Mehra guessed.

For Sheogorath, it was quite possible.

The priest shrugged. “One must always assume that devils have misdeeds in mind. But, for now, I am satisfied that it seems to have no ill effects. Now, you are the Dragonborn, yes?”

“I am.”

“You do Whiterun a great service by protecting her,” he said. “I will offer prayers to Talos on your behalf. You may even be his descendant, Dragonborn.”

Mehra smiled. She didn't think so, but she didn't really know. “I appreciate it. Thank you.”

“Now, please, don't let me keep you from your business.”

Mehra thanked him again and left the tree behind, dropping the flowers from her hand as she approached Lydia. Shaking her head, she took one last glance back at the tree before climbing the stairs to Dragonsreach.

“He said they were safe,” Mehra said. “I don't have great mystic sense, so I'd have to take his word for it.”

“Heimskr?” Lydia said. “Yes, apparently he's a good mystic. Of course, people wouldn't think so, with all the shouting he does most of the time, but given what's happened, he has every right–”

Lydia stopped mid-sentence, her face turning red. Mehra stopped on the landing of the stairs and turned to her Housecarl.

“Well, I agree,” she shrugged. “I don't personally worship the Nine, but that Concordant was vile and intentionally calculated to divide the Empire.”

Lydia breathed a visible sigh of relief.

“Is Talos your patron?” Mehra asked.

“Yes, my Thane.”

She motioned for Lydia to follow, and continued up toward the keep at the top of the stairs.

“If this expansion plan works out,” Mehra said, “then I wouldn't mind you having a shrine in the house. I am sorry that you'd have to hide it. I'll have to hide mine as well, I think; I want a shrine to Azura and her siblings, somewhere. Separate rooms for our shrines, of course.”

“That's a dangerous proposition, my Thane,” Lydia murmured.

Very true. Anyone caught worshiping Talos likely faced a death sentence. Daedra worshipers faced similar issues in some corners of the continent, thanks to the Vigilant of Stendarr and other similar groups. Mehrunes Dagon's actions at the end of the Third Era certainly made it difficult for peaceful daedra worshipers to safely worship.

They crested the stairs and walked toward the bridge that led to the keep's large doors. Mehra gave a quick nod to the guards posted out front.

“We'll just be smart about it,” she shrugged. “We've got time to think it over, at least.”

At least, she hoped that she'd have some time. Jarl Balgruuf had to approve the expansion to begin with. And, in a land where mages were greatly mistrusted, Mehra was prepared for that to be easier said than done.

She went into Dragonsreach with facts: the tower would generate tourism revenue for the city. It would create jobs in the future. It would be a symbol that Whiterun had a powerful ally.

In the end, it didn't matter: the Thane of Whiterun wanted a tower. She'd get her tower. Balgruuf didn't care much for the particulars and likely had them figured out. He knew that it wasn't an alliance with House Telvanni, nor Morrowind, but if it kept his Thane happy –

That was good enough for Jarl Balgruuf. He didn't even mind that his keep would end up being the smaller one.

Mehra provided Proventius with a deposit on the land, as well as with a rough estimate for the beginning phase of growth. Together, they'd work out furnishings.

With her business complete in Whiterun, there was nothing left to do but to travel back to Winterhold. She had a paper to turn in, the findings of which were entirely based on Neloth's notes. She decided to include her cited source with the paper, given that it wasn't a published book or article.

And, if they didn't get the papers back for some reason, Mehra would find a way to make it 'disappear' from Professor Turrianus' desk.

When she arrived at the College, her stomach soured at the news of what the College elected to name the orb from Saarthal. They decided to call it the Eye of Magnus. Onmund told her as soon as she entered the living quarters.

Mehra didn't like that name. She had enough of mystical artifacts named with a body part which belonged to a god.

But, not even Mehra could resist the temptation to study it. She made her way back to the foyer and into the Hall of the Elements to peer at the Eye of Magnus.

With narrowed eyes, she paced around the glowing orb. Damned thing. Mehra approached it slowly to examine the markings on it.

“What are you?” she murmured. She hadn't seen anything like it before.

Mehra turned to the sound of footsteps behind her and sighed in relief at the sight of Tolfdir.   
  
“These markings on it are fascinating, aren't they?” he said.

Mehra nodded. “They don't look like anything I've seen – not daedric, not dragon, nor dwemer.”

And certainly, not Ayleid nor Chimeri. Would Erich know? Could she sneak him in?

Mehra pursed her lips. Sneaking Sheogorath into the College look at an orb of power so she could learn about it was one of the dumbest ideas she'd had in her entire life.

“Agreed,” Tolfdir said. “And, they aren't anything I've seen. I've cross-referenced with things as obscure as Sload, Yokudan, and Akaviri.”

Ah, they certainly weren't Akaviri in origin.

“It radiates magicka,” he said. “It's unlike anything I've ever seen or felt before.”

Tolfdir turned his eyes down to the blade at her side and Mehra steeled herself.

“Daedric artifact?” he asked.

Mehra nodded quietly.

“Which one?”

“Ebony Blade, Master.”

His look changed to awe as he stepped forward to peer at it. Mehra wondered what he would have thought had he found out that his cousin wielded it some time ago.

Mehra pursed her lips. “As per my religion–”

“Oh, I don't care,” Tolfdir chuckled. “You didn't do anything bad to get it, did you?”

“No, Master. It was the source of bad happenings around Whiterun. Mephala wanted me to free it so that it could be used again.”

He shrugged. “Well, that's fair enough, then. If the Arch-Mage or Master Ervine try to lecture you on it, you let me know. I'll talk them out of it. I might not look like it, but, well, I'm deceptively persuasive.”

Mehra chuckled and shook her head. Apparently, persuasion ran in the family.

She wished she could talk to him about Erich. Mehra imagined that he'd be delighted to find out what came of his cousin and all of the triumphs he had. Maybe, there would be a day she could do that – a time when she didn't have to live undercover so much.

“You there. You're coming with me.”

Mehra turned to see Ancano walking toward her, his usual look of displeasure doubled at a minimum. As long as he was there, she certainly wouldn't be sharing any of her secrets with anyone at Winterhold.

Tolfdir scowled at Ancano and her breath caught. By Azura, that was the look Erich got when he was about to kill someone – the very same one.

“You're interrupting an important conversation on research,” Tolfdir said. “Is there a reason?”

“I don't need a reason,” Ancano replied.

Tolfdir narrowed his eyes and Mehra backed away. Yeah, that was the look, alright.

“You may be the Arch-Mage's self-appointed adviser,” he scowled, “but let's get one thing clear, young man: you're a guest here. And after some of the things I've heard you say, I'm not letting you walk off with this young lady alone.”

Ancano returned his glare. “Is that a threat, old man?”

Tolfdir chuckled and sighed. “If you think Winterhold sat around while Oblivion spilled out over the land at the end of the Third Era, you'd be wrong. You've no idea what I am capable of. If you wish to speak with my student, you will have to do it in my presence.”

Mehra stayed quiet as Ancano threw his hands up in frustration. She didn't need help, but that kind of support was a rare and wonderful thing.

Goodness was part of the Heartfire-Frostfall family; she was sure of it.

Aside from corrupting sacred trees, at least.

Mehra fought the urge to sigh. She needed to have a discussion with Erich on that one sometime.

“Fine,” Ancano huffed. “There is someone who claims to be from the Psijic Order here, and he wishes to speak with her. I want to know why.”

Oh. Well, that probably wasn't good.

“Aren't you just an adviser here?” Mehra asked.

She didn't think that Ancano's glare could get worse, but somehow, she figured out how to get him to do it. Still, he made no move to stand over her in an attempt to intimidate her with his height as he usually did. Mehra figured she had Tolfdir to thank for that one.

“True, but I must report to the Aldmeri Dominion,” he replied.

“So, what's wrong with the Psijic Order?”

Tolfdir winced as Ancano's scowl deepened.

“Are you intentionally ignorant?” Ancano scoffed. “Or, are you really just a dumb girl? The Psijic Order are enemies of the Aldmeri Dominion.”

Mehra sighed and picked her bag up off the ground. “Pretty sure you guys are enemies of everyone,” she said. “Excuse me for not giving a shit about you people: You certainly haven't endeared me into bothering to look into it.”

“Mehra, let's see what the visitor wants,” Tolfdir murmured, interrupting Ancano just as he opened his mouth to snap off a retort. He put a placating hand on her arm and motioned toward the foyer of the hall.

“Yes, Master,” Mehra replied.

She followed the scowling Ancano out of the Hall of the Elements. When his back was turned, Mehra hastily sent an obscene gesture, much to Tolfdir's amusement.

They stopped in front of the stairs that led to the Arch-Mage's quarters and Ancano turned to Mehra with a glare.   
  
“Now,” he said, “you will speak to this man, find out what he wants, and then, he will be removed from College grounds.”

Mehra nodded quietly. If this person was anything like the one she met in Saarthal, he'd probably just disappear.

She followed Ancano into the Arch-Mage's quarters and up the long flight of spiral stairs. Voices drifted down the stairwell: the Arch-Mage and Master Ervine tried to talk to the visitor with little success. To their credit, they stayed polite.

Mehra topped the stairs to the Arch-Mage's quarters and peered into the room beyond. The heads of the College stood next to a figure dressed in pale gold robes.

He wasn't the same person as the apparition in Saarthal, but he certainly was of the same order. Whatever he wanted, it must have been important for him to travel such a long distance to speak with her.

“Hello,” Mehra called. “I heard you wanted to talk to me.”

She stepped forward, picking up her pace to keep up with the furious Ancano. As soon as she crossed the threshold into the Arch-Mage's quarters, however, there was no need.

Time froze around her. As it did in Saarthal, the entire world blurred and turned to a haze of gray.

The man from the Psijic Order held his arms out with a spell on his fingertips, then let them gently fall. Incredible. She'd never seen a spell quite like that before.

“Nerevar,” he said. “It is a pleasure to speak with you.”

Mehra nodded. “And you as well, Sir. I suppose you have not come to exchange pleasantries, however.”

His expression hardened. “No,” he said, “I have not.”

“Understood.”

“My name is Quaranir,” he said. “Attempts to reach you in form of vision, such as the one given to you at Saarthal, have failed. We believe it is due to the very problem which exists here.”

She drew in a long breath. “The Eye.”

“Indeed. It needs to be dealt with, Mehra. Something will happen. We do not know what; with its power here, the future is a obscured to us more than we'd like. But you are a very successful woman. This is why we entrust you with this matter.”

“Well, I appreciate your confidence,” she said.

Quaranir chuckled. “I will probably be in some form of trouble with my order for getting involved as-is,” he admitted. “We typically do not involve ourselves in such matters. Obviously, your Thalmor associate is already suspicious of my arrival.”

Mehra glanced back at the frozen, scowling Ancano.

“Associate being a loose word,” she murmured. “Angry young person. I – I should probably try being nice, but honestly, I don't know what good that would do. He is determined to not like anyone who isn't Dominion.”

“It is their way,” he shrugged. “Now, as much as I would like to chat, doing this takes a considerable amount of energy. Do not leave the College after your class as you intended. I believe that it may be time. You must ensure that nobody uses the Eye of Magnus. Go speak with the Augur of Dunlain, who can tell you more of what to do. Someone is bound to know where they are.”

Mehra nodded. “I will ask about how to find this person. Thank you for contacting me.”

“Once we have finished speaking,” Quaranir said, “I will leave the College. Good luck, Nerevarine. Do not let anyone, be they young or old, push you around.”

With that, the spell broke. Time returned to normal and color returned to the world once again.

“Well, what is the meaning of this?” Ancano frowned, motioning toward Mehra.

Quaranir tilted his head to the side. “I'm afraid I don't understand.”

Mehra fought the urge to laugh. That was, without a doubt, one of the worst lies she heard in her entire life.

“Don't play coy with me,” Ancano hissed. “You asked for a specific member of the College. Well, here she is. What do you want?”

Quaranir pursed his lips and crossed his arms as he peered at Mehra. “Oh,” he murmured. “Actually, I think there's been a mistake. I don't think I should be here. I'll be on my way.”

With that, he made his way from the room as the flabbergasted College administrators looked on. Master Ervine was the first to snap out of her shock. Quickly, she followed after Quaranir, apologizing profusely for Ancano's horrible manners.

Master Aren shook his head. “A Psijic Order monk,” he sighed. “They are so reclusive that one rarely sees them. I sincerely hope we didn't offend him; that would be a terrible impression to make on such an esteemed order of mystics.”

“I've moved beyond anger and into disappointment,” Tolfdir grumbled.

Mehra frowned and glared at Ancano. “You scared that guy off,” she huffed. “Didn't even get to talk to him. Jerk.”

She spun on her heel, taking off down the stairs. Mehra wanted to talk to Master Ervine about this so-called Augur of Dunlain. Behind her, she heard the Arch-Mage request that Ancano assist him with something, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Whether Master Aren knew what she was up to or not, she was grateful for the distraction nonetheless.

Mehra reached the bottom of the stairs just as the front door to the College closed. She stared at the rusted rivets that reinforced the heavy, wooden door and thought of what to do.

It was better to wait and give Quaranir some space to get out of the College, she supposed. If Master Ervine found that she followed them, she was certain to try to facilitate a conversation of some sort, since Quaranir said that he was looking for her when he came to the College to begin with.

Crossing her arms, she leaned back against the stone wall near the door to wait for Master Ervine to return. It didn't take long; not more than a minute passed and the door swung open, inviting a rush of spring air into the College. Master Ervine stopped in the doorway and motioned for Mehra to follow her out into the courtyard.

Mehra pushed away from the wall, stepped forward, and grabbed the door. Stepping outside, she quietly closed the door behind her.

Master Ervine stood at the edge of the door's awning, staring out at the slowly-greening courtyard. Turning to Mehra, she shook her head.

“He said something vague about me assisting you,” she said. “Seemed addled. Maybe, intentionally addled. Is there something going on that I need to know, Mehra?”

Mehra stared off into the distance to where Quaranir disappeared. Apparently, he underestimated Master Ervine. Or, perhaps, he was quite intentional with what he said.

Ugh. She was rubbish at this intrigue business. How did Erich manage?

Tired of it all, she figured she ought to just make her intentions known.

“I need to consult with the Augur of Dunlain,” Mehra sighed.

Master Ervine's face fell. “That's not – that's not something I wanted to hear.” Shaking her head, she turned again toward the courtyard and ran a frustrated hand through her hair.

There was no guessing how old she was. With the small crows feet, laugh lines, and small streaks of silver sprinkled throughout her ash-colored hair, Master Ervine looked to be in her forties, for a human. The secret to youthfulness that masters of magic had was likely one that had them feared throughout the ages – and likely, it was one of the reasons mages weren't trusted in Skyrim.

It took a second's glance for her to realize how beautiful Master Ervine was. She was a short, voluptuous, and fine-boned Breton woman: features considered quite desirable – at least, at the time Mehra spent her childhood in Daggerfall over two centuries ago.

How did someone potentially that old find someone to be with in such a remote place? That was, assuming –

Idiot. Neloth did it. Mehra did it herself; she was more likely on a peer level with Master Ervine than anything.

Well, if she was a peer, she'd better start attempting to act like it, so that when she came out saving the College, it wouldn't blindside everyone.

“I need to just gather information right now,” Mehra said. “I know that's very vague. Did Tolfdir tell you what happened to me in Saarthal?”

Master Ervine sighed. “Yes. A Psijic Monk came to you in a vision and warned you of eminent disaster. Do you really think so, then?”

Mehra nodded.

“You seem so serious about this,” she mused. “I'd hate – I'd hate to lead you wrongly, you understand?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“You'll find the Augur in the Midden,” Master Ervine said. “His appearance is – shocking, to say the least. The trip may take you a while, since nobody goes down there. There could be all sorts of creatures in the underworks, so be careful.”

She turned her gaze toward the right side of the door to the College. “It's – it's there,” she murmured. “The trap door downward. Don't let anyone catch you going in.”

Mehra peered at the small, wooden door that lay against the floor at the edge of the walkway and nodded. “I have class in about two hours,” she said. “I don't suppose that's enough time.”

“Go after class,” Master Ervine said. “Once you've talked to the Augur, come back to meet with me if you learn anything important. I care about what happens here, and I take this vision very seriously. The Psijic Order has some of the world's most powerful mystics.”

“You have my word,” Mehra replied.

Master Ervine nodded, then turned to Mehra with a look of concern. In the minutes that followed, she quizzed Mehra on her spell knowledge – if she could heal herself if bitten by a skeever, cast a ward to fight off an enemy blade, throw a good fireball. Mehra responded in positive to all the questions, until Master Ervine seemed satisfied that she was able to handle herself. Still, she parted with an offer of scrolls, which Mehra politely declined.

It was better to save those scrolls for an apprentice who needed them, in Mehra's opinion.

With some time to waste before going to class, Mehra decided to make her way to her quarters and catch up on some reading. She left the courtyard behind, traveled through the college and up the stairs toward the second floor of apprentice quarters, stopping at the sight of Brelyna entering the stairwell.

“Oh, hey!” she said. “You going to study? Want to go to the Arcanaeum?”

Mehra peered behind Brelyna to see Ancano sulking around in the communal quarters and nodded. Together, they crossed the small fortress of a campus, tucking themselves into their favorite nook of the library within minutes.

Mehra opened her book and stared down at the words on the page, but her mind was drawn to her task of finding this Augur of Dunlain. Master Ervine's concern was enough to give Mehra some worries about the task.

But, the underneath of the College had to be similar to the underworks of the cities in Morrowind, right? At the least, she'd find vermin. And, at most, she'd find hidden daedra worshipers and some strong daedra that attended them.

Daedra worshipers weren't that bad, really. She'd be at ease especially if she encountered anyone worshiping the Reclamations – she was still getting used to that word – Sanguine, or Sheogorath.

Erich's worshipers would presumably be good to her, right?

Mehra thought of the Fork of Horripilation in her bag and sighed. If she ever got into trouble, he'd be there for her. It wasn't just on the merit of the fact that he gave her his artifact – it was part of who Erich was at the core. He was dependable and a man of his word.

Mehra hoped she wouldn't need his help this time. She didn't think that it would be a good idea to have him anywhere near that orb of power, especially given that he was an insane god of forbidden knowledge and occasionally cruel intent.

And she didn't even want to think about what Neloth would say to her if he found out she'd been keeping the existence of the orb from him. As much as Mehra wanted to think that he'd know better than to mess with it, she also knew that Neloth loved power. And, the allure of power was sometimes too much, even for the wisest of men.

How she managed to find two such insatiable men, she'd never know. But, she supposed she had no room to pass judgment, given that she would have actively looked for a way to use the orb when she was younger.

“You seem to be in a daze, Mehra,” Brelyna said.

She sighed, closed her book, and put her head in her hands. Was it that obvious?

“I heard about what happened. Is this about the Harbinger of the Companions, or?”

Brelyna left the statement hanging, as if she were unsure of how to continue.

“I've had a lot to think about,” Mehra admitted. “I was in Whiterun with the Companions for a while, yes. A friend who I've reconnected with stayed with me for a bit. I– we–”

She sighed deeply and shook her head. How could she word this where it was the truth but didn't give too much away?

“I realized again lately how handsome he is,” she continued. “I'll admit it; we fooled around a little. Alright, so he's more like my ex. Once he was gone and the Companions' affairs were settled, I went to Solstheim and met up with the wizard. We had a great time. Excellent conversation.”

Brelyna cleared her throat. “So, are you thinking of getting back with your ex? But what about the guy on Solstheim? Are you seeing him, too?”

This was why she didn't really want to talk about it. The whole thing was really complicated.

It was also simple, at the same time. There was no such thing as being in a relationship with Sheogorath, and she was quite certain that something similar applied to Neloth.

Simply put, Mehra figured she was a horny old bat enjoying some fun with a young God, as well as another horny old bat.

Really the whole thing was hilarious.

“And now you're giggling to yourself,” Brelyna said. “I fail to see what's so funny.”

Mehra sobered immediately. “I want you to know that I'm not stepping out on anybody. They're aware of each other. Just wanted to clear that up.”

“That raises a lot more questions,” Brelyna chuckled.

Well, Mehra supposed that made sense. And honestly, while Brelyna was very young, she saw things differently in a way that could be helpful. Getting it out was enough; she certainly didn't see herself talking to Aela about her 'man problems', as she wasn't the type to make much idle chatter.

That, and Aela met Erich. She saw that he was insane. Certainly, that would color her opinion of the situation.

“Alright, well,” Brelyna said, “tell me about your friend. What's he like?”

Mehra sighed. “Dangerous.”

“Just, 'dangerous'?” she frowned. “Mehra, that's not good to hear.”

Oh, he was so much more than dangerous. “Gentle,” she said. “Untrained. Strong. Insane. Caring. Violent. Dashing. Incredibly handsome. Attentive.”

“You said a few bad things in there,” Brelyna mumbled.

“I know,” Mehra admitted. “I know. And that was why I quit him a long time ago.”  
  
Brelyna shook her head. “Well, you also did say some really good things in there, too. And I know that everyone has faults, but insane, violent, and dangerous are very bad words.”

Yes. Mehra knew it.

She knew it more than anyone, really.

“That's part of why I'm having trouble with this,” she sighed. “He's not the man I fell in love with years ago. But on the merit of the fact alone that he's Erich, I –”

She threw her hands in the air and sighed again. He was Sheogorath. And it wasn't love-love in a 'let's spend the rest of our lives together' kind of way. She didn't feel that way about Neloth, either.

Whatever she had with either of them was fine enough for her, except that she wished that Neloth would be –

Affectionate? Was she going insane?

Really, if she wanted kisses and cuddles, Erich was much better for that.

“You know, Mehra,” Brelyna said, “since you aren't bound to something like arranged marriage, you can really take your time with these two. And, um, if they both know about each other and are fine with it, maybe you don't have to choose.”

Mehra tucked her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her knees. “I don't feel like I have to choose,” she said. “But if it's forced on me–”

“I don't see how it's anyone's business except to you three,” she shrugged. “But be prepared for society to not get it, I guess. You can date anyone you want, Mehra.”

“I don't date people, Brelyna,” she murmured.

Brelyna tilted her head to the side in confusion. “Oh,” she replied, “Do you mind telling me why not?”

Slowly, Mehra unwrapped her arms from her legs, stretched her legs out in front of her, and stared down at her hands. She eyed the callouses on her palms, picking at a small peeled cuticle to the side of her chipped thumbnail.

Her hands likely killed thousands of people.

“I'm not a normal girl,” Mehra admitted, her voice small.

Brelyna was silent next to her for a while. Mehra heard her shift in her seat, but didn't bother to look up.

“Are you a girl?” Brelyna asked.

Mehra furrowed her brow and turned to look at her.

“Um, yes?”

Brelyna narrowed her eyes. “Then, you're a normal girl.”

“Brelyna, it's complicated–”

“No,” she insisted. “What the hell is normal, anyway? Is anyone normal? Do you need to be boring to date someone? And if either of those men don't get it, then they're not worth your time.”

Mehra fought the urge to smile. She was a brash Telvanni woman, and she loved her for it.

“It's not them,” Mehra said. “They're fine, really.”

“So you're being unkind to yourself,” Brelyna mused. “Well, if you wouldn't say it to me, don't say it to yourself. Both of those men see something in you, and well, I do too – as a friend, that is.”

Mehra nodded quietly. Really, what could she say to that? It probably was a good idea to treat herself as she would treat one of her friends.

“Thank you,” Mehra said. “For being my friend. And you're right; I need to be nicer to myself.”

Brelyna sighed and shook her head. “Well, I've got a confession. I didn't want any friends when I came here. And, when you showed up, I thought of you as competition. Competing for what? I'll never know. I think that was just my reaction to seeing another Dunmer woman about my age. it's very competitive in House Telvanni – even more now that we are much smaller.”

“I don't mind any of that,” Mehra shrugged. “Things have a funny way of working out, right?”

She laughed. “Yeah, I suppose so,” she said. “Talking to you helped me sort out some of my thoughts on the House and where I stand. You make me feel normal – like, maybe, we're all just doing our thing out here in this crazy, messed up world. When we have our chats, I can forget about some of the expectations put on me.”

Mehra leaned back against the pillows and sighed deeply. “You help me forget, too. Maybe we're not so different.”

“We probably aren't,” Brelyna said.

She watched as Brelyna turned toward her bag and dug through it. Withdrawing a few sheets of paper, she peered at them and sighed.

“While you were away,” Brelyna mumbled, “A friend back home wrote to me. She said that my rival put in a request to look at the eligible bachelor list. I swear, if she gets married before me, I'm going to be so angry. She's always been nasty. I want to be first at something!”

Mehra tilted her head to the side. A list? She'd never heard of such a thing. Then again, it wasn't something that Aryon would even have mentioned to her unless she complained of being single. He knew better than to push her on something like that.

“Anyway,” Brelyna continued, “my friend already sent the list to me without waiting for me to ask. The idea scares me, yes, but I have to get ahead of that terrible girl.”

She handed the papers over to Mehra. Pursing her lips, Mehra thumbed through them. There were dozens of names with titles, most of which she'd never seen before. She paused at a familiar name and stared at it.

Talvas was on the list.

“Now there are some on there that are just completely off limits,” Brelyna explained. “It's just a list of single men who are House members. There's no way I'd even request audience to marry someone like Archmagister Aryon or Master Neloth.”

“Why?” Mehra chuckled. “You don't think the old guys like pretty young girls?”

Brelyna clapped her hand over her mouth in shock. “When you're that old,” she mumbled, “do you think you'd even have an interest in things like that? They're many centuries old. I'd wager well over a thousand. Maybe even multiple thousands.”

“If I ever get that old,” Mehra laughed, “I'd probably screw everything in sight. Who would tell me to stop, anyway?”

That was a dumb lie, really. She liked her fun, but after the incident with Sanguine, Mehra absolutely preferred known entities.

Brelyna laughed along and shook her head. “Well, even if it were true,” she said, “Master Neloth has a reputation for being nasty and doesn't bother with the Council. And apparently, a few centuries ago, Archmagister Aryon was rumored to be having an affair with an apprentice. Despite their power, I don't think either of those are good candidates.”

Oh, no. Was Mehra that supposed affair? Because nothing happened. Aryon practically scooped her off the street and adopted her. Their relationship was far from anything that could be construed as sexual. If her actions as his apprentice ruined his reputation, she'd never forgive herself.

She peered back down at the list. Sure enough, Neloth's name was on there, but directly below it –

Mehra stared at Talvas' name. Really, it could be a great match.

“What about Neloth's apprentice, though?” she asked.

Brelyna laughed. “Oh, that's not going to happen. Someone with that prestigious of an apprenticeship has to be at least a century old. Besides, he's a master conjurer; people with that rank can dual-summon nearly anything. There's no way someone like that would look twice at me.”

Dual-summoning? Incredible. Mehra didn't know that about Talvas; he was so soft-spoken and never mentioned his accomplishments nor skills.

But, to be fair to Brelyna, she was excellent at alteration and illusion, and was an expert at both. That was no small feat for a twenty year old.

Alright, so Talvas was two-hundred years older than Brelyna. But, Mehra and Neloth had a gap of thousands of years and something –

Something just mixed well with them. It was the right ingredients of something. Maybe Brelyna and Talvas would have something similar. At least with Talvas' kindness, she knew that Brelyna would be well cared for. And she couldn't imagine him coercing her to have children nor sex until she was ready.

“If that theoretically happened,” Brelyna said, “I'd live on Solstheim while he finished his apprenticeship with Master Neloth. We'd likely have our own place grown to the side of the tower. Honestly, there isn't much to do on Solstheim.”

Mehra cleared her throat. “I'd beg to differ about that.”

“Alright,” Brelyna drawled. “So there's nothing to do there but have sex. And speaking of that, you're not going to get away that easy. You haven't finished telling me about this Erich guy. Is he a Nord, or a Breton?”

Alright, fine.

“He's a Nord,” Mehra confirmed.   
  
Brelyna's face flushed in embarrassment. "I don't know if you'll understand this," she said, "but I grew up in Sadrith Mora. Foreigners aren't really welcome there, especially non-casters. So Nords? I didn't see too much of them. They can be really um, exotic. That sounds horrible, I know. I hate it when people say that about me."

Mehra's face softened. She didn't share Brelyna's feelings exactly, as she'd grown up in Daggerfall, but she understood the idea.  
  
"I don't go around telling people that," Brelyna continued. "But, yeah; Nord men are handsome."  
  
She smiled and nodded. "I agree to that. The muscles are delightful."  
  
"Mmm! Yes. I like a man with strong arms and shoulders."  
  
Ah, then she'd likely find Talvas attractive. The guy looked very strong. And he was good and nice. If Brelyna was to be in an arranged marriage, then she wanted it to be a good one with a good man.  
  
That was, if Talvas wasn't into men only. She'd have to find that out. If it worked out, then Neloth would likely be delighted to have the tower to himself more often.  
  
"Anyway," Brelyna giggled, "describe this ex to me. What's he look like?"  
  
“Uh,” Mehra mumbled, “Massive. I come up to his mid-chest.”

Brelyna swore under her breath. “Like, tall Altmer height? Ancano height? With Nord muscles?”

Mehra nodded and Brelyna swore again.

“You're tall, too,” she mumbled. “Like, tall for one of us. Wow. So, hair? Eyes?”

Mehra smirked. “Well, yes, he has those.”

Brelyna rolled her eyes.

“Alright,” Mehra laughed. “He has hazel eyes. Like, the color of honey. Green on the outside. The inner rim is darker – red-brown.”

“You stare into his eyes, much?” Brelyna chuckled.

Mehra cleared her throat. No, not as much anymore, given that Erich's eyes were now a creepy window with which she could peer into the Void.

“And his hair,” she continued, “it's straight. Reaches his lower back. He had an accident with some shock magic some years back and that made it all fall out. He told me that it used to be copper, but it grew back in white. And I think the spell knocked a bit of his brains loose, so to speak.”  
  
Well, close enough on the insanity bit. It was a likely excuse for it, at least.

Brelyna pursed her lips. “Well, Master Tolfdir is probably on to something when he talks about how magic can be dangerous.”

Mehra nodded quietly. Erich's attitude toward casting probably would have made Tolfdir sad, if anything else.   
  
“So, he's a mage, then?” Brelyna asked.

She shrugged. “He's more athlete than mage, but he has some raw talent with magic.”

“Athlete,” Brelyna mused. “So, what's his build like?”

Mehra sighed deeply and stared into the vacant hearth in front of them.

“Well, he's got the body of a –”

Say it, Mehra. It was true, after all.

“A god,” she said. “Strong all over. If – if someone could be a hero by their looks alone, well, Erich sure looks like he could be a hero.”

Brelyna bit her lip and chuckled. “Ah, so can you um, bring him by the College? For observation.”

The clock tower far above them chimed, signaling the turn of the hour and the beginning of the next classes. Grabbing her book, Mehra stuffed it into her bag and tied the clasps shut as Brelyna gathered her things.

“Oh, well, look at the time,” Mehra said. “Class time. Got your paper?”

“You're not getting away that easily,” Brelyna drawled.

Mehra stood and shouldered her bag. “Brelyna, they don't allow crazy people here, especially crazy, untrained gifted. I don't want him anywhere near that damn orb downstairs, and I certainly don't want Ancano to do so much as look at him.”

“Protective?”

“Of Erich? Not at all. But Ancano?” Mehra grumbled. “Strangely, yes. Erich is not to be messed with, and he'd kill a man for threatening me.”  
  
Brelyna swore under her breath. “Has he hurt you?”

“Never.”

Mehra began to make her way out of the Arcaneum, with a very concerned Brelyna jogging to catch up. She shouldn't have said anything.

“He doesn't try to control you, does he?” Brelyna asked. “Or say terrible things to you?”

“No, never. It's the opposite, in fact. He wants me to handle things myself but he's always there for me if I ever needed the help – if, if he weren't out of his damn mind half the time, I –”

Mehra stopped in front of the stairwell that led down to the lecture hall and sighed. An unexpected pair of arms wrapped around her from behind.

“I'm so sorry, Mehra,” Brelyna whispered.

Mehra closed her eyes. She was sorry, too. But, it was the only way he would have been alive for so long; Erich wouldn't have learned magic well enough to have lasted for two centuries.

“Do you want to just get to class?” Brelyna asked. “Or, do you want me to turn your paper in for you and you can have a sick day?”

She shook her head. “No, I'm fine. I – Erich and I had a very bad fight years ago. We broke up. His mind was a lot more together back then. So, I've been through this kind of thing before, in a way. I'll be sad, but I'll be fine.”

Mehra sighed again. It seemed as if she had an infinite supply of sighs these days: exasperated, frustrated, lonely, self-depreciating.

“I'm worn out on this but one day,” Mehra said, “I'll tell you the whole story from beginning to end.”

“I understand. Let's go to class, then.”

Perhaps, when the threat of Alduin was gone, Mehra would tell Brelyna everything. And maybe, if the orb was gone from the College one day, she'd bring Erich by to see Tolfdir. Judging by his reaction to her new sword, Tolfdir didn't seem to mind some things as much as the other College administrators.

But, she couldn't count on ever being able to do as she wanted, especially in a place like Winterhold.

Mehra made her way down to the lecture hall with Brelyna following quickly behind. Like many of the first year classes, the Introduction to Enchanting class was located in a back corner of the College, in a small, tidy room filled with rows of old, mismatched tables and seats. At the front of the room was a rickety lectern, and lining the wall behind it was a small row of cabinets filled with soul gems. Between the dozen or so students, there was a single, worn ebony enchanter.

The pair shuffled in to the back of the room and quickly took their seats as Professor Turrianus called attention. As he called the class roll and directed each student to turn their papers in when their name was called, Mehra dug through her pack. Withdrawing the stack of papers, she waited until her name was called at the very end of the list.

“Mehra, what do you have?” Professor Turrianus asked. “You have been absent from the College for some time. Generally, enchanting research does not require travel.”

She stood and made her way to the front of the classroom, fighting the urge to grin. “We get these back, right?”

He nodded. “At this level, I don't think any of you have made any groundbreaking research, so yes.”

“Sounds good!” She handed the paper with the notes to the Professor, watching eagerly as he flipped through them. His frown melted into a look of confusion with each second.

“Whose writing is this?” he asked.

“Well, I did the annotations –”

“The other handwriting,” he grumbled. “How did you get in contact with someone who is fluent in Ancient Dunmeris?”

“That's Master Neloth's writing,” she replied.

Professor Turrianus cleared his throat and looked up from the notes to level her with a stern glare. “Young lady, I hope you know that academic dishonesty can result in expulsion.”

What? He couldn't be serious!

“No, that's really his writing!” Mehra insisted.

“Master Neloth of House Telvanni?” he asked. “Seriously?”

Mehra nodded.

“Look,” he sighed, “someone took horrible advantage of you, then. Telvanni wizards do not allow guests, let alone provide private instruction without an apprenticeship – a highly coveted and extremely competitive apprenticeship.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but he cut her off.

“I'm going to look at this,” the Professor continued, “because I want to see what nonsense this impostor has been filling your head with. I'll give you an extension, but I will have to dock points.”

Mehra threw her hands up and went back to her place. Brelyna glanced over at her with an incredulous look.

“That's the wizard from Solstheim, dammit,” Mehra whispered. “Brelyna, you've got to believe –”

Professor Turrianus cleared his throat as the class snickered at her. “Mehra, please see me after class and we can discuss this in private,” he said. “Now, on to our lecture.”

Frustrated, she stayed silent through the hour long lecture and the enchanting lab that followed after. Mehra didn't know how to handle this one to convince the Professor that Neloth was indeed the person who gave her the notes. She supposed she'd have to just wait a while.

It would shock everyone when she brought Neloth by later to gather the necessary materials for creating the tower. They did agree during the planning, after all, that getting materials from Morrowind would take too long. And Neloth – ass – wasn't about to part with his best materials without spares lying around.

Well, they were his soul gems to begin with and she had no right to take them from him. He'd just have to suffer through a detour through Winterhold, then.

His visit would be vindication for all the rumors circulating around Winterhold about her. Not only did people assume her to be some woman of 'loose morals', but they'd soon assume her to be a fool on top of it.

Thankfully, the gossip surrounding a supposed lack of intelligence wouldn't last for very long.

Class dismissed and Mehra waited as her peers shuffled out of the room. Slowly, Brelyna stood from her seat next to her, giving her a worried glance.

“Go ahead without me,” Mehra said. “I've got some stuff to do after class, anyway. Don't worry about me, alright?”

Brelyna nodded, but Mehra knew that nothing she could say would ease her worry. To someone who didn't know about the origin of the notes, she supposed the whole thing looked really bad.

Mehra wasn't sure what she was thinking. It wasn't as if everyone knew Neloth's penmanship – dreadful and full of loops as it was.

Shaking her head, Mehra stood and approached the desk at the front of the room where the Professor sat. She pulled a chair out from the closest table and sat down across from him as he thumbed through her paper once again.

Professor Turrianus pursed his lips. “The gossip of this place is far beneath me,” he said, “but even I overhear things. You've been traveling to Solstheim and back often to see a wizard there. What you do with others is your business, of course, but I hate to be the bearer of bad news. That's a bitter lesson for a young woman to learn.”

She sucked in a breath. Well, it really was Neloth, but she appreciated his candor, at least. The Professor looked up from the papers in his hands.

“The idea of someone defrauding one of my students like this absolutely sours my stomach,” he sighed. “You're not at fault. I will, however, have to share this information with the directors. Master Ervine can provide you counsel likely better than I can, but of course, my door is always open.”

“Literally, always open,” Mehra chuckled.

Professor Turrianus laughed. “Yes. Literally and figuratively,” he said. “And Master Aren will have to translate those notes for me; I'm much too rusty on Ancient Dunmeris to be of any use. I'll have to talk to him about what to do in this instance, as well. I'm sure it has happened to someone before, but certainly not to one of my students.”

She nodded quietly. Mehra wasn't about to re-write that damn paper; the most she'd ever written in her life before then had been a letter.

“That's all I needed,” the Professor said. “Now, was there anything you needed to ask of me?”

Mehra eyed the paper as he placed it at the top of the stack with the others. He was in for the shock of his life in the next few weeks.

“Can I make a soul gem order?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” he replied. “Of course, they will have to be paid for with your own funds.”

She shrugged. “I've got no problem with that. What I need are two grand soul gems, filled with the strongest souls that can possibly be conjured.”

“I advise against practicing with such powerful gems,” he frowned. “If the enchantment fails – and factually, it has a high likelihood of doing so with first year students – you will be out of a lot of money.”

“You only live once, right?”

Professor Turrianus shook his head, stood, and motioned toward the door. “I didn't get to this position by being reckless, but being out of some money is one of the least reckless things a mage can do. Your money; your problem.”

Mehra thanked him for making an exception and quickly made her way out of the classroom behind him. From there, she wound her way back through the College and out into the blooming courtyard. Mehra bided her time on a bench in the sun as students and staff milled about, occasionally casting a glance toward the trapdoor that led toward the Midden.   
  
She had an Augur to visit.

After then, she wasn't sure what would happen. Quaranir said she had to be prepared for something, and Mehra wasn't keen on pondering what that 'something' would be.

It seemed as if every time she visited the College, there was some sort of trouble or hostility directed at her.

Fortunately for the College, she was exceptionally stubborn.

 


	32. Chapter 32

A/n: I did some... questline edits. When you're playing a game, everything is about the PC, but when you're reading a story (or at least, how I write mine), it's about the cogs in the machine, so to speak. And some of these characters deserve more starring roles, IMO. You'll see what I mean when you read the next two chapters. But it won't end up being lore breaking!

(science note: I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that since the Romans did dissections that examined the nervous system, the world of the Elder Scrolls and its mixed era sciences/equivalents would certainly have a rudimentary idea of neurology.)

 

* * *

 

_"As a young man, I grew impatient with_ _Mages Guild_ _restrictions, as did many of my fellow apprentices. We threw ourselves into the riddles of daedric magic. We hungered for forbidden secrets. Knowledge and power were our gods. You can guess the rest. We got in over our heads. People died. My friends died. I've put those days behind me. But the bitter wisdom that one has been a fool is not without value." - Martin Septim_

 

* * *

 

There was a door all the way down here in the artificially lit underworks of the College. Mehra peered at it from atop an embankment of icy gravel and frowned. A strange, blue light poured out from underneath the door, signaling that this must be the place to find the Augur.

Aside from an occasional sentient skeleton, the place was empty. Perhaps, she had the presence behind the door to thank for that.

Mehra stepped forward toward the door and yelped as her feet slid on the thick sheet of ice. Flailing her arms, she attempted to right herself, only to fall flat on her behind and slide down the rest of the slope. Mehra grumbled when she reached the bottom, stood, and dusted herself off.

A chuckle sounded from the direction of the door.

Well, she probably did look silly, falling down an icy hill in full armor. Shaking her head, she trudged over toward the door and stopped in front.

“There is no solace in knowing that which is to come,” a voice called.

Mehra frowned at the glowing light that spilled from the crack underneath the door. The voice sounded as if it belonged to a man, but it had a strange, disembodied quality to it. Daedra Lords projected their voices in such a manner; a few very powerful wizards were also capable of the same.

Whatever manner of being this was, they were no ordinary person. They had to be the Augur of Dunlain.

“Which one?” she drawled. “The Alduin World-Eater part or the power-hungry Thalmor having a secret love-affair with an orb of power?”

A dry laugh sounded from within.

“The future is never certain,” he said. “I see branches in the tree of time; it is never a straight path. Will someone die in your endeavor? Quite possibly. Will you die in this quest to right this wrong? Possible, but certainly not a guarantee. Or, will everyone come out of it unscathed? Well –”

He chuckled quietly to himself, as if the mere thought of everyone surviving the foretold calamity was an amusement.

“We will see,” the voice said.

Mehra crossed her arms. “I'll do my best,” she said. “That's all I can say. May I come in? I'd like to talk face to face.”

He laughed again – loudly – and the door swung open to reveal a nearly blinding light. Mehra shielded her eyes and threw up a ward to block any possible attack, but none came.

“I have no face,” the voice laughed.

Blinking, Mehra slowly dropped her barrier and the arm shielding her eyes to see a massive orb of blue light in the center of the room.

Incredible. This being – this voice – was made of pure magical energy. Mehra saw a lot in her travels, but nothing quite like this.

“Are you the Augur of Dunlain?” she asked.

The light grew brighter. “I am that which you have been seeking,” he replied. “Your efforts are in vain. It has already begun.”

She glanced around the room and pursed her lips. It was a small room made of stone, completely bare. The Augur rested in the center of the room in a circle of stones that resembled a magical well.

Perhaps it really was a well.

“I was told as much,” Mehra frowned. “The beginning part – not the futility part. I make my own path, Augur. I always have.”

“So say they all,” he said. “The Thalmor came seeking answers as well. Your path now follows his, though you will arrive too late.”

Ancano. She should have known he'd get mixed up in visiting the Augur. But, how did he even know of the Augur's existence in the first place?

He must have snooped around in the Arch-Mage's private documents. Certainly, nobody would talk to him about it. She'd give him credit for being a good spy, at least.

Mehra pursed her lips. “I figured he'd be involved. He asked you about the Eye, didn't he?”

“Indeed,” the Augur said. “Your paths surely will meet, though you take a different one. It is a good path, not traveled by many. You may be able to save your College.”

“That's why I'm here,” she replied. “I want nothing to do with the Eye. Messing with it is a fool's errand.”

The Augur chuckled. “Then perhaps, you were the correct choice. In order to see through Magnus' eye without being blinded, you must find his staff. Act quickly. You must take this knowledge to your Arch-Mage. He will know exactly what to do next.”

Mehra sucked in a breath. Good; finally, there was someone who would know what to do without all the mystery involved. But, the Staff of Magnus? She found that in Morrowind a long time ago. Then again, the staff itself was known to be semi-sentient and it chose its masters.

Mehra wasn't quite sure how it worked, but if that staff didn't want someone to pick it up, they'd be screwed.  
  
“I had that staff once,” she said. “I presumed that it had been buried in the eruption of Red Mountain. That is, unless I had an elaborate copy of it.”

“Even I do not know the answer to that,” the Augur replied. “The staff – and the one behind it, perhaps – does as it pleases, if it even has what could be called a 'will' at all. And I do not necessarily know its relation to what you call the 'Eye of Magnus'.”

Mehra nodded. “If anything could stop magical energy from running amok, it would be that staff.”

“Indeed. Now, you must relay this information to the Arch-Mage. I wish you success, Master Dreloth.”

She chuckled under her breath. It figured the Augur would know who she was and where she came from. She turned on her heel to leave, but thought better of it.

“You're down here all by yourself?” she asked.

“I am.”

“Sounds lonely,” Mehra murmured. “Do you –”

“It is complicated. But, do not delay; time is short. You must leave.”

She peered out at the cavern beyond the door and pursed her lips. “Alright. I'll come back later to report my success, I guess.”

“I hope that you do,” the Augur replied.

A wind blew against her back, gently directing her toward the door. Mehra exited the room and the door swung shut behind her with a click. Sighing, she cast levitate and walked through the air to avoid climbing the icy slope.

She understood somewhat why Master Ervine was hesitant to tell her the location of the Augur of Dunlain. He did seem quite forthright with information. On top of that, the Midden was dangerous to anyone not used to combat, and the College had dozens of students who hadn't raised a hand in self-defense before.

Silently, she wound her way back through the Midden, stopping in front of the trapdoor that led back up to the courtyard. Mehra quickly cast a detect life spell to see if there was anyone above.

The courtyard was thankfully empty. As quickly as she could, Mehra levitated upward, bypassing the ladder and popping up through the trapdoor. As soon as her feet landed on the stone walkway lining the courtyard, she turned to the the trapdoor and closed it gently.

Figuring she owed Master Ervine an explanation as well, Mehra sought her out. She found her in the Hall of the Elements, staring down the Eye of Magnus while Ancano stood off to the side. Neither appeared to have noticed her, and she took a minute to study them.

Master Ervine looked worried, moreso than usual. And, given what Mehra knew, her worries were certainly valid. She wished it weren't so.

A quick glance over to Ancano revealed tired, bloodshot eyes, as if he hadn't had a decent sleep for quite some time. He appeared a bit disheveled – something quite out of the ordinary for a Thalmor officer, especially one of his caliber. The lapels on his robes lay crooked, the tail of his belt lay loose against his waist, and his hair hung down around his face in greasy, tangled strings. Ancano stared intently at the Eye of Magnus as if he were afraid it'd disappear.

Mehra saw exactly what the Augur was referring to; Ancano's path was one of ruin. Pursing her lips, she stepped forward to where Master Ervine could see her.

“Master?” Mehra called.

“Yes, Apprentice?” Master Ervine replied.

“I wanted to discuss something with you that happened in class today,” she lied.

Master Ervine nodded and followed Mehra, taking one last glance at the Eye of Magnus.

As soon as they were out of hearing range, Mehra turned to Master Ervine with a frown.

“We need to discuss this with Master Aren,” she said. “The Augur said so.”

Master Ervine nodded. “Understood. I hope you weren't too put off by him. It was an accident from a long time ago.”

“I didn't mind him at all,” she shrugged. “A bit sassy; just my type, really.”

Master Ervine snorted and chuckled. She motioned toward the stairwell that led to the Arch-Mage's quarters.

“Mind you don't get yourself into trouble with such types,” she replied. “The Augur was a student here, once. I don't suppose you want to end up like him.”

Mehra shook her head. “I'm fine with living in a boring flesh prison.”

Together, they climbed the stairs upward. Mehra waited in the threshold of the doorway that led to the Arch-Mage's quarters as Master Ervine called out that there was company. After a moment's delay, Master Aren permitted them to enter.

A brief glance around revealed that Master Aren kept the front area of his quarters tidy; offhand, Mehra couldn't recall anything that moved or seemed out of place from the time she visited it much earlier in the year.

Master Ervine led her through the Arch-Mage's quarters and past the partition into the private area. This section, though less tidy, was far from cluttered or dirty, save the desk at the far wall at which Master Aren sat. Piles of books filled the desk, balanced precariously atop one another. Similarly, stacks of papers lined the desk as well, turned at haphazard angles to separate each section.

Master Aren sat in a small, plain chair, reading a familiar stack of papers, a look of confusion plain on his face. He looked up as they entered and waved the stack of papers.

“Apprentice,” he said, “this paper is – well, it's fascinating. The notes alone are worthy of publication. Professor Turrianus expressed some concerns to me over this paper, but whomever this person is, they certainly know what they're talking about on the way of enchanting.”

Mehra opened her mouth to thank him, but Master Ervine cut her off.

“I wish this were the time for pleasantries,” she said, “but unfortunately, Mehra has some information that we need to be aware of. I'm assuming it involves the Eye.”

Master Aren visibly deflated as Mehra nodded.

She didn't like being the bearer of bad news, but this had to be dealt with.

Something was very, very wrong with Ancano. And, despite the fact that she didn't like the guy, it wasn't enough reason to not do her damnedest to try to save him along with the College.

 

* * *

 

Mehra was, without a doubt, hiding something. Brelyna didn't believe in the least that Master Neloth was the man on Solstheim whom she was having an affair with. Master Neloth, of all people? It absolutely couldn't be!

But she did suggest Neloth's apprentice out of nowhere as a marriage candidate. Still, she didn't necessarily think that meant anything; from what it sounded, she didn't know anything about Telvanni apprenticeships.

Someone was lying to Mehra and claiming to be Neloth. That had to be it. And the idea that some man would do that to Mehra –

It made her furious.

Mehra just seemed too smart for it all. The whole thing was really shocking. Brelyna knew that their catty, competitive classmates would do whatever they could to make the situation look much worse for Mehra. She needed support, not rumors.

Brelyna never heard of something like this happening before, but the more she thought of it, the more plausible it sounded. A run-of-the-mill mage could easily lie to a young, determined apprentice in order to seduce her.

It was – well, it was rape by fraud, wasn't it?

She clenched her fist and stared down at the book in her lap as she felt the well of destructive magicka stirring deep within her. Furious didn't even begin to describe how the whole thing made her feel.

If she knew where to find this Erich guy, she'd be quite tempted to tell him what happened so he could help sort things out but –

Was it really fair to get a crazy guy involved in something like this? People like that needed stability in order to stay as healthy as possible. At least, that was what she remembered from when her grandmother grew senile and forgot everything.

But if she had a full name or knew where to find him, she could at least look him up and tell him that Mehra –

No, that was nosy and meddling.

Damn it.

This whole thing was so messed up. Poor Mehra.

But, what could she do other than just listen? Brelyna had to do something about it; she just had to.

Perhaps, she'd write to the Council herself and inform them that someone was masquerading as Neloth and seducing young mages. And Gods help the guy when the real Neloth found out!

Yes, she'd do that. Of course, she'd have to come up with a few drafts of the letter and get all of her anger out before she sent the final one to the Council. It wouldn't do to have her appear so uncomposed to them.

Brelyna glanced back down at her book, scowled, shoved a bookmark into the place she left off, then shut it in distaste. She couldn't concentrate with this on her mind.

“You alright, Brelyna?”

She turned from putting her book away to see Onmund standing in the doorway.

“Well, you were in class today,” she frowned. “Did you laugh at her, too?”

He held his hands up in defense. “No way. I feel really bad for her. And it makes me wonder how much trouble will the rest of us get into if we're half as smart.”

“Pardon?”

Onmund shrugged. “Come on, you know you're the two smartest students in the class. I don't mind it.”

She finished putting her book into her pack and sighed. “What do you really want, Onmund?”

“I wanted to see if Mehra was doing alright,” he admitted, “but she just disappeared. I thought you might know where she went.”

Brelyna shook her head. “She disappeared after class. I hope she didn't run off to Whiterun but it's possible.”

“Oh.”

His face fell and he stared down at the floor. Biting his lip, Onmund kicked at the stone floor, his face turning red.

“That um,” he mumbled, “that guy on Solstheim – they weren't serious, were they? That is – she's not dating anyone, is she? After this guy, I mean.”

Brelyna crossed her arms and pursed her lips. She wasn't really sure what to say in reply to that. If anything, this incident with this fake Neloth guy would send her right back to Erich. Admittedly, Brelyna wasn't sure if that was a good idea.

“I wish I knew what to tell you,” she admitted. “There's a guy who she might be seeing soon, but I don't know, honestly.”

He nodded slowly. “That's fine. I guess if that changes, well – I'm interested in her. But I wanted to see how she was doing genuinely, not because I'm interested. I know I'd have to pass the 'friend test' first anyway, yeah?”

“Damn right you do,” Brelyna smirked.

Onmund laughed. “Alright, understood.”

He turned to the side to stare at something out in the hall and blinked, his brows furrowing in concern. Brelyna watched him incline his head in a slight bow.

“Master Ancano,” Onmund said, “you look exhausted, Sir. It would be my pleasure to go outside town to find some valerian root for you should you need a good night's rest.”

Brelyna heard nothing but a muted mumble in reply. Soon after, a set of footsteps tromped down the stairs as Onmund stared on in bewilderment.

“Guy looks sloppy tired,” he murmured. “That's not like them. Something's up, right?”

“Sins of the past plaguing him at night?” Brelyna drawled.

Onmund turned to her and sighed. “Now that's not really nice, but yeah, maybe. He spends a lot of time studying the Eye of Magnus though.”

“Good,” she grumbled. “Keeps him away from our classes, and keeps him from picking on people. I don't know why you were nice to him just now anyway.”

He shrugged. “That's just my way. I try to hold myself accountable for how I act before anyone else can.”

Brelyna arched her brow at him.

“I really mean it,” Onmund said. “I'm not here to one-up anyone and I've got nothing to prove. Anyway, thanks for talking with me. And, uh, please keep it between us about Mehra, alright?”

“Sure, Onmund. See you around.”

He disappeared back around the corner and Brelyna sat back in her chair. That whole thing was strange; she hadn't noticed Onmund talking with Mehra all that often, but now that she thought of it –

She supposed she did remember him staring at her often enough that it added up. Well, she'd keep it in mind, but Brelyna wasn't sure that it was a good match.

Mehra was the adventurous type; she needed a guy who would do those kinds of things with her, she figured. The whole thing was a moot point, anyway. Mehra was about to go through a nasty breakup and had to sort out her feelings for her ex, and a new interest thrown into the mix probably wouldn't help much at all.

The clock tower chimed high above her again, signaling yet another turn of the hour. Where was Mehra? Brelyna was beginning to get a bit worried.

Frowning, she stood, shouldered her bag, and made her way out of her quarters. She'd check the Arcanaeum first, then the Hall of the Elements.

Hopefully, she'd find Mehra before Ancano did. The guy always found a way to harass her, and it was the last thing she needed.

 

* * *

 

She didn't like sending an apprentice way down into the Midden. Most of them were wealthy kids sent to learn on their parents' coin and had never encountered a fight in their lives. It was likely that not many had even seen a dead body before.

Of course, there were a few exceptions; Onmund, J'zargo, and Mehra appeared to be self-funded. Still, Mirabelle didn't like sending Mehra into the Midden all by herself. It didn't matter that she had supposed dragonscale armor, a Skyforge steel sword, and enchanted – possibly daedric – weapons:

Mehra was an apprentice, and therefore, her responsibility. Mirabelle took that responsibility seriously, even if Mehra gave the appearance of being able to handle herself.

Relieved didn't begin to describe how she felt when Mehra sought her out after her trip to the Midden. Of course, on the tail of that was dread.

The Augur of Dunlain was never wrong, and he told Mehra some important information that both she and Savos needed to know. So she took Mehra upstairs right away.

It would be about damned time that Savos was forced to take action with something, if he did at all. Knowing her luck, he'd get her to take care of everything.

Mirabelle sighed as she watched Savos put Mehra's paper aside. She wasn't sure which would happen. It was said that still waters ran deep but she often wondered if the man she loved was simply stagnant.

“Before we start,” Savos said, “I do have a quick question for Mehra. What is that new sword in your collection?”

Mirabelle followed his line of sight toward the short, black blade at Mehra's side and frowned. Yes, there was quite a heavy enchantment on it, and the aura it exuded was far from friendly.

“Ebony Blade,” Mehra replied. “A gift from Mephala.”

Savos narrowed his eyes and sighed. “Be careful with that, alright?”

Mirabelle turned her gaze toward Mehra and watched as she nodded quietly. She found herself strangely trusting of the young apprentice, and didn't necessarily like that she did. But she supposed that if the ever-cautious Savos didn't mind it, then there wasn't too much to worry about.

“Now,” Savos said, “What's this about the Eye? I am glad that you've been hands-on with this, of course.”

Mirabelle grabbed a nearby chair, dragged it over, and motioned for Mehra to sit down. Likewise, she grabbed a chair for herself.

“Oh, a seated conference,” Savos mumbled. “Well, this is a bad sign.”

“Likely so,” Mirabelle agreed.

Mehra visibly winced, the mannerism a bit strange looking beneath the fearsome dragon skull helm she wore.

“So I should start at the beginning,” Mehra said. “In Saarthal, a Psijic monk appeared to me as an apparition. He told me that I'd started a series of events that could not be stopped. I figured it had to do with the Eye. But I heard nothing else from them, until today.”

Savos frowned. Mirabelle felt guilty for not telling him about the vision, but she didn't want Ancano to catch wind of it. Instead, she kept it secret as Tolfdir requested, hoping that Mehra would come across more information eventually.

“To make a long story short,” Mehra continued, “the man who visited today told me to visit the Augur of Dunlain. I just got back from doing that. I was told that there is indeed eminent destruction coming our way, and the only way to stop it is to find the Staff of Magnus. He told me that you would know something about it, Master.”

Savos put his head in his hands. He also knew that the Augur was never wrong.

Mirabelle waited for him to say something, but he just sat there shaking his head. Frustrated, she sat back and crossed her arms.

“Last I knew, the Synod was hunting down rumors of the staff,” she said. “They mentioned something about the ruins of Mzulft. But, why would we need that?”

Mehra pursed her lips. “Well, if someone went power-mad,” she grumbled, “found a way to access the Eye and drew off of its immense well of magicka in a fit of insane rage, the only thing that could absorb such excess would be that staff, right?”

“Gods,” Mirabelle swore, “that's lunacy. But it sounds like it could happen. Of course, I'm absolutely horrified at the notion.”

Mehra nodded in agreement, and Mirabelle glanced over at the Arch-Mage. Savos looked ill.

“It comes back around, doesn't it?” he murmured.

She furrowed her brow in confusion. “What do you mean?”

He put his head in his hands yet again. No, she wasn't going to let him shut down on her again.

“Savos,” Mirabelle frowned, “if this has something to do with –”

“It's in Labyrinthian,” he said. “I went there with friends in an expedition centuries ago. I – I was the only one to make it out alive.”

Savos looked up to meet her gaze. “You want to know why I'm so cautious?” he said. “It's because of that. Every accident around here–”

“Every damn accident!” he hissed. “Is inexcusable and avoidable! What good is it to these kids if they die? If they lose their souls? If they go mad, lose their friends, or witness unspeakable horror?”

Mirabelle deflated. She had no idea. It made a lot of sense.

“Well,” Mehra said, “If the staff's there, that's where I have to go, spooky ruins or not. Preferably now, to be honest.”

She turned to Mehra with a frown. “You're not going alone, Apprentice.”

Mehra closed her eyes and sucked in a breath, as if that news greatly disappointed her. Mirabelle didn't quite care; it was bad enough that she sent Mehra into the Midden alone, but to Labyrinthian?

Absolutely not. She drew the line there. She'd be going with, whether Mehra wanted it or not.

Savos frowned, withdrew a key from his desk, stood, and made his way to a small strongbox on top of a nearby bookshelf. Sighing, unlocked the box.

“It's a moot point without the torc,” he mumbled. “I sealed the ruins behind me to keep the evil at bay.”

Disturbingly, Mehra perked up at the mention of evil. Mirabelle had a mind to watch that girl when this was over with – providing they survived it.

Savos withdrew a large, metal torc from the box, a grim look on his face.

Brelyna stumbled into the room, making Mirabelle jump in surprise.

“Master!” she panted. “There's something going on in the Hall. The inner gate's shut. Ancano is in there. There's a barrier.”

Mehra swore and stood, her chair tipping over and falling to the floor with a clatter. “Hostages?” she asked.

“Oh, Gods,” Brelyna gasped. “I don't know!”

Mirabelle's stomach clenched. “Brelyna, get into the Arcanaeum and order an evacuation of all personnel. Mehra; get the living quarters. Savos, follow me down, then be outside in the Courtyard to do a headcount. I'll search for stragglers if there are any.”

Mehra took off like a deer, handily beating the group to the stairwell. It was why Mirabelle sent her to the farthest place; she'd cover the most ground.

Quickly, she cast a life detect spell as she followed behind Savos.

“I find out about this today, and the apprentice is immediately right,” Savos said. “The Psijic monk from this morning was our warning? And you knew about it?”

Mirabelle sighed. “I wanted to make sure, first. I thought there might be time to prepare – like a warning about another Great Collapse. This is infinitely more horrifying.”

“Shades of Dagoth Ur,” he grumbled. “What a nightmare. How could I have let this happen under my very nose?”

They stopped at the bottom of the stairwell and faced each other. The chaos of students and faculty evacuating around them forced them to stand off to the side. Frustrated, Mirabelle grabbed his arm.

“Look, Savos,” she said, “you couldn't have known this would have happened. Let's focus on saving the College.”

Mirabelle followed his gaze toward the glimmering barrier across the foyer. Gods, but that was a strong one. Still, she figured they could break it down if they cast enough at it.

But would such an idea be truly wise? What if Ancano was already feeding off of the Eye?

Brelyna emerged from the Arcanaeum with Urag and Nirya in tow. Dodging the evacuating people, she weaved across the foyer to stop in front of Mirabelle.

“Arcanaeum is clear, Master,” she said.

“Good,” Mirabelle replied, “go ahead outside. I'm going to take a look with a spell to double check all areas.”

Brelyna nodded and left with the dwindling crowd.

“Living Quarters, clear! Expert life-detect, clear!”

Mirabelle glanced up the stairwell behind her in the direction of Mehra's voice.

“Can she really cast that?” she asked.

Savos shrugged. He didn't know, either.

“Yep, let's go.”

She turned to see Tolfdir standing in the doorway to the courtyard, a smile on his face. Well, if he knew the ability of his student, then she wasn't one to argue.

Mirabelle blinked in confusion. There, clutched in Tolfdir's hand, was the College roster.

“Where'd you get that?” she asked.

Mehra appeared at the bottom of the stairwell and stood silent, as if awaiting orders.

“Well, I nicked it from your office, obviously,” Tolfdir smiled.

She rolled her eyes. “Tolfdir Frostfall, you're always a hooligan.”

Behind her, Mehra failed miserably at holding in her laughter.

Mirabelle shook her head and motioned toward the door. Without waiting for an order, Mehra crossed the foyer, stopped in front of the stairs that led to the Arcanaeum, and cast a detect life spell that was far beyond expert level.

“Clear,” she called. “Can't see beyond the barrier to the side, though.”

Even Tolfdir narrowed his eyes in suspicion at the young apprentice. Choosing to leave the matter be, the group made their way out into the courtyard. At his insistence, Tolfdir began to do the roll call as Savos pulled Mirabelle and Mehra aside.

They had to go through their Labyrinthian plan.

“Time is of the essence,” Mirabelle frowned.

Mehra nodded in agreement. “Potion bender?”

She glanced back toward the door to the College and to where Ancano kept the Eye of Magnus behind a barrier. A faint, spring breeze blew by, rustling through the trees in the courtyard. Robins flew above to perch in the branches of the trees, unaware of the danger nearby

How strange that something terrible would happen on a mild day like this.

“Mirabelle?”

She shook her head and peered up at Savos. “Um, yes. It is dangerous at times, but if done properly, it can be safe.”

“We need supplies,” he said, “and the best ones are up in my quarters, of course. I'll be back.”

Mirabelle frowned. “That's dangerous.”

“I've got no choice.”

Mehra stepped forward, shielded her eyes from the sun, and peered up at one of the windows the Arch-Mage's quarters.

“Ah, no worries,” she shrugged. “I've got it.”

She cast a strange spell that created rings of concentric purple light at her feet. Immediately, her feet caught in the air and she floated off the ground unhindered.

Mirabelle gasped. Levitation? She hadn't heard of anyone doing that one in over two hundred years, and even then, it was only really popular in Morrowind, in particular, among the Telvanni. She supposed that to an adventurous type such as Mehra, the spell would have many uses, though.

That still didn't explain where Mehra learned the spell from. The eruption of Red Mountain wiped out thousands of Telvanni tomes and scrolls.

Mehra stepped up into the air and turned back toward Savos. “Potions? That it?”

“Um,” he mumbled, “No. There's a circlet in my strongbox. Get that, too. You remember how I got into it, right?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Good. Thank you, and be careful.”

Mehra gave him a quick salute before turning and climbing through the air once again. It looked as if she climbed an invisible hill, albeit, a bit slower than a normal walking speed.

Incredible. Mirabelle never thought she'd see levitation in person.

She heard a series of gasps behind her as other members of the College saw what Mehra was doing.

“You're levitating!” Brelyna shouted. “Where in the world did you learn a Telvanni secret?”

Mehra turned around in the air and waved, a cheeky grin on her face. “Well, where do you think?” she called.

Mirabelle didn't quite know what she meant by that and wondered if she ought to get to the bottom of it. She had the sinking feeling that perhaps, she ought to have kept a better eye on Mehra when she first enrolled. Sighing, she turned back toward the group and watched as Tolfdir called roll. Now wasn't the time to be suspicious of one of the apprentices.

Mehra emerged from the Arch-Mage's quarters minutes later with a visibly bulging bag. Quietly, she approached them and awaited orders.

Mirabelle turned to Savos and gave him a nod. “Hopefully, we won't be gone too long,” she said. “Gods only know what Ancano is doing in there.”

“No, you're not going,” Savos frowned.

Mirabelle scowled. Yes, he was the Arch-Mage, but she didn't like being told what to do. And she certainly wasn't going to send Mehra there by herself.

“I'm going,” he insisted. “I know you're a hands-on woman, and I've always admired that about you, Mirabelle. But I cannot send you to fix my centuries-old mistake.”

She bit her lip. Mirabelle wanted him to take action, but this? This was dangerous. The evil inside the ruins would know him the second he stepped foot inside.

Savos stepped forward and grabbed her hand.   
  
“Mirabelle, if something happens to you while I'm gone –”

“Damn it, if you get hurt in those ruins,” she hissed, “or worse, I–”

“I really can go by myself,” Mehra interjected. “Lady Mephala's sword–”

“Absolutely not!”

Mirabelle turned to Savos and shared his smirk. Well, they said it at the same time, so they certainly agreed on that one.

Mehra shrugged and sighed as she adjusted the heavy pack on her back. In her hand, she clutched a silver and sapphire circlet that glimmered with a hefty enchantment. Mirabelle watched as Mehra's gaze turned toward the side, and she turned to see what grabbed her attention.

Tolfdir approached with the roster in hand. Mirabelle wondered what it was about Mehra that made her notice things so quickly, but figured it to be her fighter's instinct.

“By the grace of Talos,” Tolfdir said, “we're all out of there, except for Ancano.”

Mirabelle breathed a sigh of relief. Now, she just had to organize a way to get everyone fed and cared for while the College was evacuated.

“Talos?” Mehra smiled.

Tolfdir narrowed his eyes in the direction of the College and where Ancano lurked.

“Yes,” he spat, “Talos.”

Mehra chuckled to herself. “Talos would want to stick it to him, I reckon.”

Mirabelle didn't care to get involved in that. Instead, she gently insisted that the unlucky pair get started on their journey. At Savos' request, Mehra donned the enchanted circlet, giving her a strong boost to her magical reserves. There was nothing left to do after that; she certainly couldn't kiss him goodbye in front of everyone.

The pair left to the cheers of the College wishing them luck on their journey to find the fabled Staff of Magnus.

Finally, Savos was doing something, and it scared Mirabelle to death.

She watched as he walked off into town with Mehra, wondering if it was the last time she'd see him.

 

* * *

 

Mehra had no idea that Masters Aren and Ervine were a 'thing', but after watching them together, she found it quite plausible.

Did – did nobody else see it? Friends didn't hold hands like that, right? Mehra assumed that if someone at the College found out, one or both of them would be forced to step down. It would be a horrible scandal.

Mehra couldn't say much about it; her fling with Neloth was similar, though they were technically the same rank. But, if the rest of the Telvanni Council knew about it, the entire thing would cause such a scandal. Telvanni Masters rarely spoke to each other.

Neloth.

Mehra swallowed. She was about to do something very dangerous, and wasn't sure if she'd make it out alive. At the very least, her journey to Solstheim would be delayed.

She glanced to her left to Master Aren and pursed her lips. Perhaps, he'd understand; after all, he got to say goodbye to Master Ervine.

“Master,” she said, “if possible, I'd like to stop at the inn to write a quick letter.”

“Are you serious?” he asked. “Time is of the essence.”

Mehra stopped and mustered up her most distressed look – not difficult, given the circumstances. “But Master,” she begged, “I will most certainly be in trouble if I don't write. He expects me by the end of the week.”

Master Aren relented and pointed toward the inn. Without waiting for him, Mehra dashed through the mud and into the building. She'd let him think whatever he would infer from what she said.

Calling out to the Dagur, the innkeeper, Mehra jogged up to the bar. She was grateful that she stayed in the inn a few times; in Stormcloak country, it was much more difficult to find people who would help her out. Still, there were good people everywhere, and Dagur seemed to be one of them.

“Hello, miss,” the Dagur greeted. “How can I help you?”

“I need quill and paper,” Mehra announced, “as well as wax for a seal. It's urgent.”

He nodded and went into his back room to get the necessary supplies. Mehra exhaled nervously as she leaned against the bar, while Master Aren entered the tavern and stood at a nearby table. Thankfully, Nelacar was locked in his room; she didn't want him to see the Arch-Mage outside of the College, for fear that he would catch wind of something dangerous happening there.

“Excuse me, miss?” a voice sounded from the back of the room.

Mehra turned to see a young Breton man stand from his seat.

“I'm a courier,” he said. “I don't want to overstep my bounds, but do you need to send a letter?”

Dagur returned with the necessary items and set them in front of her. “I do,” she replied. “Let me write and we will discuss the specifics.”

Mehra turned to the parchment, dipped the quill into the ink, and wrote as quickly and as legibly as she could.

_N –  
_ _Arrival delayed. Apologies. Trouble at C.W. May have to come out as N. Will arrive as soon as possible. Wish me luck.  
_ – _M_

Satisfied with the brevity of the letter, Mehra removed her coinpurse from her satchel, but Dagur would have none of it.

“You pay the courier with that,” he said. “It's a favor.”

Mehra nodded and thanked him. When a Nord liked someone, they would be friendly to a fault. Mehra folded the dried letter, stuffed it into an envelope, sealed it with wax, and imprinted the Moon-and-Star on the seal. She trudged over to the courier.

“Will you deliver to Solstheim?” she asked.

The courier cringed. Mehra opened her coinpurse and dumped half of its contents – around one thousand gold – on the table.

“Will you deliver to Solstheim?” she repeated.

The courier nodded. “Where do I deliver this?”

“On the southeastern end of the Island,” Mehra replied, “there is a giant mushroom tower called Tel Mithryn. You should be able to take the silt strider there. Deliver this note to Varona Nelas, steward of Master Neloth. She will give it to her Master. Do not make idle chatter; Master Neloth is very old and has no patience for pleasantries.”

Mehra sighed and emptied more gold onto the table, just in case the courier ended up meeting Neloth.

“There is nowhere for guests to stay at Tel Mithryn,” she explained. “You will have to leave from Raven Rock and return there in the same day. Cover your nose and mouth with a handkerchief or scarf to protect yourself from the ash, alright?”

The courier nodded slowly as she handed the letter over to him. “Ma'am, this is a lot of gold. I appreciate it. I'll make sure your letter gets there as quickly as possible.”

Mehra thanked him and Dagur, then made her way out of the tavern with Master Aren following close behind. She peered up at the statue of Azura peeking out from behind the mountain and thought a quick prayer to her and her siblings, asking them for safety.

Whether Master Aren was religious or not, she didn't know; the statue did catch his gaze for the briefest of moments, however. As they made their way out of the town, they set as brisk a pace as possible.   
  
“So, you can levitate and know the name of Neloth's tower,” Master Aren mused. “Perhaps, Professor Turrianus was incorrect.”

“He was,” Mehra shrugged, “but I don't hold it against him. In retrospect, it did seem far-fetched, and I ought to have chosen my source from an official publication.”

“This is certainly true,” the Arch Mage replied. “Still, I wager Neloth had his own published work in his library.”

She drew in a breath and nodded. “Likely so, Master.”

“Hm. So he was the one whom you made the staff for.”

“Yes.”

Master Aren shook his head and peered up at the sky. “Now that I'm drawing the connections, well – I honestly don't know what to say. I don't know what manner of person Neloth is, but his enchanting work is world-renowned. So in that regard, I suppose you're quite fortunate.”

“I like to think so, yes,” Mehra smiled. “And um, you and Master Ervine? That seems fortunate, to me.”

Her stomach dropped at the look on his face.

“Oh,” she mumbled, “I um – it's my turn to be awkward, isn't it?”

Master Aren walked silently for a while, his hands shoved into his pockets. As the silence grew, so did Mehra's unease.

She really insulted him, didn't she? Gods, she just assumed a relationship about him and his sexuality in a single sentence.

Finally, Master Aren sighed and stared down at the worn, crumbling road.

“It's true.”

Mehra pursed her lips and nodded. It was forbidden, though, wasn't it?

More than anyone in the world, she understood how he felt. She was having an affair with a fellow Master. She loved a daedra. And she couldn't share either of those facts to commiserate with him.

“It started just before you arrived,” he said. “I think it did, at least. I've known her for a few hundred years and I think we've been fond for a long portion of that time. I don't know how the College would look upon it, honestly.”

“A rule that's not really a rule?” Mehra mused.

Master Aren nodded. “Exactly. Putting a secret – uh – girlfriend, I suppose – as my second in command looks awfully corrupt. But she was my second long before anything happened.”

“Makes sense,” Mehra said.

“Listen,” Master Aren said, “if I don't make it out of this alive, you need to tell her that I loved her. So, you cannot die, understand? I don't care how many injuries you get; you're not allowed to die.”

“That's not a fair deal,” Mehra grumbled.

Master Aren smirked. “Well, a Master is sometimes unfair to his apprentice in order to build character.”

“Oh,” she groused, “that's what people have been doing to me all this time.”

“Hopefully so,” he sighed. “Though in some areas of the province, certainly not. You keep your head down when you go to Windhelm to get to Solstheim, right?”

“I do, Master,” she lied.

Mehra helped a kid from that city assassinate an old woman, started a fistfight, started an argument, killed a Thalmor agent outside the gates, and helped aid an enemy of the Aldmeri Dominion in getting out of the city.

But when she thought about it, it was one of the more mild lies she told, so there was that.

Mehra sighed deeply. She didn't like living like this.

“Are you up for walking a little faster, Apprentice?” Master Aren asked.

She glanced down at him and nodded. “I'll go as fast as you'd like, Master.”

“Excellent,” he replied. “We've got those potions, anyway. I'm not going to pretend to be as fit as you, but once we get into the ruins, well – I will be plenty useful.”

Mehra smiled as she walked faster to keep up with Master Aren's jog. “I look forward to seeing your power, Master.”

It felt strange, traveling with someone smaller and slower than she. Come to think of it, all her traveling companions of late had been Nords. And Erich was, by far, the worst to try to keep up with. Even when she first met him and he had residual injuries from blasting Mehrunes Dagon with Finger of the Mountain, he still outpaced her – even on a day when he had a limp.

Mehra still wasn't quite sure what caused that. He had no scars from that particular cast.

“Master, what happens when someone casts a destruction spell improperly?” she asked.

Master Aren slowed his pace a little in order to talk. “Depends on the particular element of magic cast. At best, the spell simply fails and the result is nothing. At worst, the caster is frozen solid or turned to ash.”

“What about shock magic?” she said. “And, a cast of desperation and self-defense for survival.”

He pursed his lips. “Rare, to be honest,” he replied. “Would presumably be an untrained gifted. You don't see that very often, but you may see it out here in Skyrim where magic is frowned upon. Since magic originates from thinking, presumably, one could shock their insides. It would travel down the pathways responsible for sensation. You can see some of these pathways during a vivisection – fascinating yet gruesome stuff.”

Mehra nodded quietly. That explained it quite neatly. Erich never told her how bad it had been for him. She remembered helping him stretch his leg and arm, and massaging his hand. But he rarely complained about it, even when his leg dragged behind him a bit. In retrospect, Mehra would have rathered he complain than to leave it a bottled-up footnote in their relationship. Last she knew, the Empire didn't hand out medals for suffering in silence.

That was altogether his prerogative, however. With how nasty and cruel she was, perhaps he was afraid of how she'd react to how he really felt.

She suspected he would have softened her even more had he opened up.

“Mehra, are you alright?”

She shook herself out of her thoughts. “Was thinking about the kind of person that would happen to,” she said. “It's terribly sad.”

“That is why Winterhold exists,” Master Aren said. “To train people in the ways of magic. I'd welcome someone like that into our College.”

It was much too late for Erich. She wondered why he didn't just run away from home to go join Winterhold, but she figured that his father would have chased him down across the province. Maybe, he even checked with Tolfdir to see if Erich did indeed end up there.

He was meant to go to Cyrodiil, the same as Mehra was meant to come back to Tamriel and wander into Skyrim.

And Mehra felt that she was also meant to go to Winterhold as well. She'd dealt with this kind of thing before, with someone seizing nearly endless amounts of power. Though she didn't know Ancano's motivation, she supposed it was the same as anyone else who did the same thing:

World domination.

The thought didn't sit well with her, especially given that Ancano's loyalty was to the Aldmeri Dominion. This behavior was abnormal and seemed much more like obsession and insanity than anything else.

And if Ancano died in the fight that followed her retrieval of the Staff of Magnus, Mehra supposed she would have to be content with never knowing exactly what happened.

She thought on these things as she and Master Aren jogged through the mountain pass that lead to the southwest. Every so often, they shared a strong stamina potion and continued onward.

Hours later, as the sky began to turn orange, a shadow loomed overhead. Scowling, Mehra shielded her eyes from the fading sun and peered up into the sky.

Dragon.

She swore under her breath and drew her sword. Now was not the time to deal with this. A quick glance around told her that they'd be in trouble if it decided to land; they were surrounded by walls of rock on both sides. It could land above and blast a breath of fire into the road below that would kill them in an instant if their wards shattered.

She'd have to levitate up to get onto more even ground.

Mehra glanced back at Master Aren and pursed her lips. “I have a plan,” she said. “Don't stop; whatever you do, don't stop moving. The faster we get out of this rock trap, the better.”

She watched as he readied a powerful fireball in his palm. If he could throw that accurately through the gap in the rock above them, it'd be perfect. Still, she preferred him to get to safety.

The dragon circled above, but didn't get within spell distance. And it was eerily silent.

“What could it possibly be doing?” Master Aren grumbled, giving the dragon a wary glance.

Mehra narrowed her eyes at it and scowled. “Spying.”

“Spying?” he repeated.

“I haven't heard a battle roar,” she shrugged.

Up ahead, the rock surrounding the path began to slope downward. A clearing on the side of the mountain was just beyond the slope.

Mehra ran forward and burst out into the clearing, her hand on the hilt of her sword. The dragon circled above, staring down at her. It descended some, but never roared. Perhaps, it was weighing its options.

She wished the damned thing would make up its mind.

“I'll blast your scales clean off!” she shouted. “Try me!”

Master Aren sighed deeply behind her, as if he thought her brash. She'd done this before; if it attacked, then the dragon was done for.

The dragon continued to circle, and Mehra prepared the strongest fireball she could muster. If she had that dragonrend shout, she'd really get him.

“I'll get you like the one that attacked Whiterun!”

It took the threat seriously and took off with great speed. Still, the dragon said nothing, even as it disappeared over the horizon.

Master Aren laughed out loud. “Never in my life did I think I'd see an apprentice threaten a dragon into retreating.”

“It was wasting our time though,” she grumbled. “I mean, really. I don't think we have time for one of those guys to bother us, right?”

They resumed their jog down the mountainside and Mehra narrowed her eyes toward the horizon and where the dragon disappeared.

“It sounds as if you have dealt with this before,” Master Aren mused.

“I've killed a few dragons, yes,” Mehra replied. “They seem to want to come after traveling wizards and warriors – maybe, getting rid of resistance before they make an organized move. But, that aside, I know we could have taken him without any trouble.”

“Good to know. And hopefully, we can get to Labyrinthian without further interruptions,” he said.

Mehra nodded quietly in agreement. They needed to get back to Winterhold with the Staff of Magnus as quickly as possible. With the dragon safely out of the way, the pair picked up their pace once more. They continued on for hours and into the night, downing expensive and rare potions to replace not resting.  
  
In the pitch black of the night, they eventually arrived at a massive, crumbling stone wall covered in half-melted ice. A mountain flanked the ruin on each side. Master Aren was the first to spot it through the branches of thick, old pines lining the overgrown path that led to the ruin. Now stilled, they stopped at the place where the path led toward a set of crumbling stairs that led up toward the front entrance of the gate of the ruin.

A sparse amount of light from a half Secunda shone down on the path, the rest of the sky obscured in an ominous haze of clouds. It was strangely still here, and even in the dead of night, Mehra expected to hear wildlife of some sort.

There was nothing save the sound of their own breath, ragged and harsh from running through the night.

Master Aren dropped the hood of his cloak and stared out at the massive wall lined with depictions of eagles.

“This is where it happened,” he murmured. “I – I had nightmares about it for decades. I still can't forget it. I'm not proud of what happened here.”

He turned to Mehra and steeled himself. “I swear to you; we will get that staff, and at least you will make it out of here alive.”

Mehra peered up at the long set of stairs that led up to the ruin. It must have been a bustling city, back in its time; it was built to last. Even the stone bridge that led across a gap in the rock toward the main gate appeared to be very well intact.

“We're both getting out of here alive,” she corrected.

Master Aren sighed and nodded. “Of course, Apprentice.”

Together, they climbed the winding staircase that led to the main gate to the city. Stopping for a brief moment in the shadow of the enormous gate, Mehra cast a quick life-detect spell and saw nothing around the expanse of crumbling ruins beyond the gate.

An overgrown network of roads led through the city, leading up and down with crumbling stairs to nonexistent levels of the city where only foundations of multi-level buildings once stood. Through the city beyond, Mehra saw a crumbling arch lining the mountain pass behind the city.

And there, in the back, right corner of the ruin, stood a massive building connected to the mountain – the only building left standing in the entire city.

Master Aren followed her gaze toward the long line of stairs and the building beyond.

“It's a temple,” he said. “Merethic Era – a Dragon Cult temple. The most dangerous type of ruin you can encounter. Let's get this over with.”

She sucked in a breath and followed him up the stairs toward the ominous temple. As they stepped under the temple's massive awning, Mehra peered forward at the sealed door in front of them. There was no handle there, and she supposed it was Master Aren's doing.

Sure enough, Master Aren stepped forward, removed the torc from his robes, and wedged it into its place. He then took a deep breath and knocked the torc against the massive stone door, the sound echoing deep within the temple. With that complete, he then turned it to unlock the door.

The door to Labyrinthian rumbled open and a gust of frigid air rushed outward.

With it came a malevolent aura so strong that even Mehra sensed it, and she was certainly no mystic.

What in Azura's name had they just walked into?

 


	33. Chapter 33

A/n: Mzulft? Bah! Boring :P I'm being a bit cheeky on that one, but I hope you all enjoy the changes nonetheless. Also, I combined both the designs of the Staff of Magnus from Morrowind and Skyrim, in case you're wondering why it looks different than the Skyrim version.

Also, sorry for the delay in updating, but my greyhound, Talos, suffered a very bad tear to his carpal (wrist) pad and needed urgent care. It was a very gnarly wound! Having to juggle that care and sleep in different arrangements has given me a big pain flare, so I've not had the time or energy to write. Thanks for being understanding!

AN EXTRA LONG CHAPTER, THEN, FOR YOUR PATIENCE :D

* * *

_"It shames my race that we must be judged by the works of such lack-wit blunderers" – Yagrum Bagarn_

* * *

Skeletons just inside the front entrance of a ruin were always a bad sign.

Mehra sucked in a breath. Offhand, she counted half a dozen piles of bones that were once adventurers. A quick glance back to Master Aren revealed that he appeared to be well for the time being, though Mehra morbidly wondered if he had a name to go with any of the particular bodies on display.

She turned back to the temple and shook her head. "Plan, Master?"

He visibly shook himself. "One foot in front of the other."

"Solid plan."

"It generally works," he mumbled.

Mehra took a step forward and motioned for him to follow. "I agree."

They placed one foot in front of the other and walked down a short set of stairs into the main foyer of the temple. As they walked by the skeletons scattered about the entrance, Master Aren spared them a brief glance. On the right end of the foyer sat a dusty table with various old supplies on it- likely from Master Aren's ill-fated expedition.

Pressing onward, they stopped in front of a set of large, wooden double doors that were reinforced in iron. Master Aren clenched his jaw and pushed them open, a look of distaste crossing his face when their rusted hinges squealed loudly.

The room beyond was a crumbling slope of cobbles that led downward into the darkness. With no light available, the mages both cast spells to illuminate their path. At the end of the slope lay a large, stone arch and a gate, beyond which appeared to be nothing but foggy darkness.

Judging by the grim look on Master Aren's face, there was much more than darkness behind the gate.

Mehra raised her hand to cast a life detect spell then quietly lowered it as she realized that whatever was back there certainly wasn't alive.

Master Aren put his hand on the nearby lever that would open the gate and pursed his lips. "Be careful," he whispered.

Mehra nodded and he pulled the lever down. The rusty gate fell with a clatter. Not more than a second later, she heard scuttling in the room beyond.

Mehra drew her Ebony Blade, readied a fire spell in her hand, and stepped forward as Master Aren followed, his hands ready to cast.

They saw her as soon as she stepped foot into the enormous vaulted room. Skeletons of all kinds – magic users, warriors, and archers alike – rushed toward them, their eerie, glowing eye sockets searching for them in the dark.

Mehra ran down the stairs and into the room, throwing her fireball at the closest archer. She didn't have time to wait to see if it impacted as a skeleton with a sword charged her. Just as she prepared to cross swords with it, a blast of lightning blew the skeleton off its feet and disintegrated it on the spot.

It appeared that Master Aren had an opinion about her getting close enough to them to use her sword.

She threw another fireball at a nearby archer, then ran forward toward one of the warriors. At the last second, Mehra let out a shout that shattered the skeleton into hundreds of pieces.

A rumble sounded behind her.

Swearing, Mehra watched as the skeleton of a dragon burst from the ground at the center of the room. It shambled forward on its weakened wings, seeking out those who dared to awaken it. The dragon let loose a frigid blast of ice in her direction, and Mehra narrowly jumped out of the way to escape. She traded its ice for a shout of fire, as well as a fireball from her fist.

The skeletal dragon – like all other undead – was apparently weak to fire. It let out a silent roar, just as Master Aren threw another fireball to finish it off.

The temple fell silent. Still, Master Aren clutched a spell in his hand, ready to strike at a second's notice. Mehra didn't quite feel it necessary, but she certainly didn't know the place like he did.

They exchanged a quiet nod and proceeded forward. As she passed by the skeletal dragon, Mehra glanced at its remains. She wasn't sure if her thu'um was what awakened it, or if it would have awakened of its own accord.

More likely, some powerful necromancer used its bones in order to fight. The prospect was disturbing.

The pair crossed the large expanse and stopped at the entrance downward to catch their breath. Turning back toward the room, Mehra motioned toward the dragon and the mound from which it crawled.

"Dragon cults worshiped the dragons," she said. "I reckon that skeleton was a revered deity at one point. Perhaps, the other skeletons were attendants. The room here would have to be large enough to accommodate the dragon, as well as worshipers."

Master Aren stared at the mound and skeleton dispassionately. "An interesting thought," he mumbled. "How would you know these things?"

"Research," she shrugged.

"Try again," he replied. "I've seen The Voice before. You just used it. You've met the Greybeards. There is more to you than I know, isn't there?"

Mehra sucked in a breath and peered down at the dark ruins below. If this were a Dragon Cult temple, the undead priest at the bottom of the ruin certainly felt her power and knew what she was, even before she used it.

Time to come clean – at least, a little bit.

"I am Dragonborn, yes," she sighed. "I also had the Staff of Magnus two centuries ago in my tower on Vvardenfell. I was the youngest ever Telvanni Master."

"What?"

"I was imprisoned off the continent for two centuries," she said. "Came back to find my home and House destroyed. I discovered my dragon blood soon after I came back. I'm trying to pick up the pieces."

Master Aren pursed his lips. "Explains the quick increase in power," he replied. "And I do understand the need for secrecy. Perhaps later, we can discuss your future at Winterhold. Telvanni teachings are hard to come by outside of the House. Provided we don't die, that is."

Mehra wasn't sure, but if they came out of this alive, she might tell him everything.

They had to take care of the omnipresent evil deep within the ruins, first. It was one thing to be a washed-up Telvanni Master; it was another thing entirely to be the Nerevarine.

Mehra wanted the presence to underestimate her.

"Then you have also made mistakes," Master Aren said.

"A mountain of them."

He closed his eyes. "Girduin died first. None of us had a chance to react. One moment we joked about what we'd find below, the next he'd been ripped in half. And then we were all just fighting to survive. And, stupidly enough, we could have turned back there, but we didn't. We kept going."

Mehra nodded and peered down the stairs behind them and at the plaque that stood at the bottom.

"And we are also going to keep going," she mused.

He swore under his breath. "At least I know you're not a mere apprentice," he said.

Together, they descended the stairs, passing by the plaque at the bottom. From Nerevar's cursory knowledge of the enemy's written language, Mehra made out a few words on it – something about a grand city, and may it stand forever – rather common things for a commemorative plaque.

The only way down from there was another set of double doors to the right. Pushing them open, they entered another large area, with arches marking two short sets of stairs that led downward. They took the set of stairs to the right and prepared to step into the small room beyond until a gust of wind stopped them in their tracks.

"Wo meyz wah di vul junaar?"

Mehra frowned at the disembodied voice – male, Dragon Priest – and put her hand on the hilt of the Ebony Blade.

"I speak common tongue, Granddad," she murmured.

There was no reply.

Suspicious, Mehra drew her sword and motioned for Master Aren to wait in the doorway as she crept through the room to ensure that it was safe. There wasn't anything of note, save the strange, frozen door to the right. Perplexed, Mehra stepped forward to investigate it.

"No!"

Mehra jumped back as Master Aren threw a fireball at the door. A strange spirit emerged from it, only to step right into the flames that he cast.

The spirit melted on the spot.

She cleared her throat and eyed the puddle of water and ectoplasm on the ground. "Sorry, Master."

Master Aren stepped forward with a fire spell in his hand and clenched his jaw. "Don't be sorry; be alive."

She nodded quietly as he cast fire at the door, melting it in an instant. Together, they stepped through the newly opened path and stopped again as wind blew up from the deep.

Mehra sucked in a breath and clutched at her chest. Something drained her magicka.

"Nivahriin muz fent siiv nid aaz het."

A glance to the side told her that Master Aren was similarly affected. Knowing that she was much better armed than he, Mehra took the first step forward. Beyond the doorway was a cavern that led deep underground, and a precarious, open path that led the way, with a draugr standing in the middle.

Mehra smirked and crept forward. As soon as she had a clear shot at the undead, she released a shout that blew it off the side of the path to fall into the abyss beyond.

Another draugr snarled below them and charged up the path toward her. With her sword ready, Mehra ran at it and met it head on, taking its legs out with a practiced kick and sending it into the cavern below.

They crept downward across the treacherous path, drawing closer to another doorway in the side of the rock below.

A sigh rose up from the abyss. "You do not answer," the voice said. "Must I use this guttural language of yours?"

Mehra paused for a moment and shrugged. "We don't know yours, so yes."

She grabbed Master Aren's arm and gently led him across a particularly dangerous gap in the path.

"Yet you act as if you know it," the voice replied.

"I only know the good words," she said.

The voice chuckled. "Upstart."

"I'm not here to boast," Mehra shrugged.

They stopped on the other side of the chasm and paused in front of a short set of stairs that led upward.

"Have you returned, Aren?" the voice chuckled. "Do you seek to finish that which you could once not?"

Master Aren visibly paled. "I have."

A laugh rang out through the ruins, sharp and otherworldly. "You only face failure once more!"

Mehra trudged up the stairs, stepped into the next room, and stepped to the side. Behind her, Master Aren launched a fireball at an unsuspecting draugr in the room in front of them, felling it in a single hit.

"This is about the least enlightening tinvaak I've ever had," she drawled.

"Hmph! 'Tinvaak', she says," the voice scoffed. "Then we shall see you at the bottom, if you can make it that far."

They continued downward in silence, the darkness growing more oppressive with each step they took. Master Aren held himself well, even as they came across the skeleton of an argonian which had a sword sticking out from between its ribs – a skeleton which made him stop and stare for much too long.

Mehra gently pulled him along and away from the memory of a dead friend.

The way forward was full of scores of undead, angry spirits, and crumbling ruins. As they delved deeper, Mehra found herself in awe that Master Aren – an apprentice when he came to Labyrinthian – was able to escape with his life. Now centuries later, his magical power was incredible. The majority of the draugr he encountered went down with a single spell.

Still, if the Priest was able to drain magicka on his own, Master Aren would be in trouble when they faced him. Mehra knew her sword would be needed.

It was eerily silent, and Mehra almost wished that the disembodied voice would say something – even if it gave them another heckling.

Deep within the ruin, they passed by a carving depicting a dragon priest surrounded by mages. Beneath it appeared to be a place where people could be sacrificed; an ancient skeleton sat in the stocks underneath the carving.

Mehra hoped she was wrong about that, but given the history she knew about the Dragon War and the rebellion against the priests and their dragon masters, she certainly wouldn't put it past them to sacrifice people.

It would be her pleasure to take out this dragon priest, really.

They pushed onward, encountering a wall with a word of power carved into it. Mehra found herself grateful that she explained her dragon blood to Master Aren earlier; explaining away the strange glowing would be impossible.

The ruins led deeper, until Mehra wondered if they would ever end. Still, they pressed on, fighting ghostly draugr and an occasional corporeal one. Eventually, they came across a long, large hallway with a set of large, reinforced doors at the end.

"This is it," Master Aren murmured. "Without even opening the door, we knew what was behind it would kill us. We weren't powerful enough to take it on. 'No matter what, we stay together,' Hafnar said. I looked him in the eyes and lied to him."

He drew in a shuddering breath and stared at the door. "I told myself for years that I had to sacrifice them to get out of here alive – that I couldn't loose this thing on the world."

She didn't know what to say in reply to that. Mehra knew it was a selfish decision, but perhaps, at the time, it had been the best decision he could have made. She couldn't rightfully say. Loosing a Dragon Priest onto the world could have been devastating to the cities nearby.

Master Aren put his hand into his cloak, withdrew the torc, and pressed it into her hands.

"I won't do it again, Mehra," he said. "If we're defeated, you run. Come back with an entire damned army if you have to."

She pursed her lips, nodded, and swung her pack off of her back to put the torc inside. Sparing a glance at the Fork of Horripilation, Mehra sighed and discretely tucked it into the glove of her gauntlet. She had an entire damned army consisting of one angry daedra if she really needed it.

They both took one last look at each other before nodding and pushing the doors open together.

"Oh, my friends, I'm so sorry," Master Aren breathed.

Two spirits in mage robes knelt from across the gallery, sending spirit energy toward a glowing lich which Mehra assumed was the Dragon Priest. A barrier shone around him, much like the one she encountered in Saarthal.

"Them first," Mehra murmured. "I'll take the far one."

Master Aren nodded in agreement, and they crept forward in an attempt at a surprise attack.

The room in front of them appeared to be some sort of throne room or meeting hall. While the Dragon Priest stood at the front and center of the room, the two enthralled spirits were further to the back, underneath a pair of decorative carvings.

Mehra and Master Aren crept down the stairs toward the meeting place. As they stepped beneath the shadow of a large awning, Mehra made a motion toward her target and prepared her strongest spell on her hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Master Aren signal that he was ready.

As she flung her fireball toward her target, a horrifying thought occurred to her:

Erich never told her exactly how she was to summon him with the Fork.

Swearing under her breath, Mehra charged forward with the Ebony Blade. Now was one of the worst times to come to that realization.

She dashed up to where the enthralled wizard stood and swiped at him with her sword. The glow of a ward flashed in front of her, cracking when her blade struck it.

Behind the ward, the wizard's spectral face contorted in fear.

"I'm going to save you," Mehra hissed. "Hang on!"

The ghostly man – what was left of him – certainly didn't mean to help this Dragon Priest.

A flash of orange caught her gaze. On instinct, Mehra threw up a ward, just as an immense wave of fire barreled down on her and the hapless thrall. She yelped and grit her teeth as heat soaked into the ward and singed her hand. Had she been anyone but a Dunmer, she would have suffered much more than a little burn.

The spell let up and Mehra dropped her ward with a wince. A puddle of spectral material lay at her feet – the remains of the enthralled wizard.

She turned her gaze across the chamber to the undead Dragon Priest. He thought nothing of sacrificing his pawns to advance himself.

Glowering, Mehra cast a quick restoration spell to the burned skin lining the inside of her arm and hopped over the ledge to approach the platform on which he stood.

"People aren't things," she spat.

After all the things she'd done in her life, she was a bit hypocritical to say something like that. The Dragon Priest laughed, as if he'd sensed it.

To her right, the fight between Master Aren and the other thrall ended. The Priest's posture changed immediately; he drew the staff on his back, held it up in defense, and prepared a spell with his other hand.

The withered hand crackled with shock magic and flung a bolt of lightning straight toward her. Gritting her teeth, Mehra threw up a ward, ran forward, and attempted to dodge part of the spell. It glanced off of the corner of her ward, giving her the opportunity to press forward.

The Priest backed away as quickly as he possibly could. Snarling, he pointed the staff in Master Aren's direction and cast a magicka-draining spell, all the while putting as much distance between himself and Mehra as possible.

He was a mage; he had the Staff of Magnus in his hand. If she could get close enough to him to hit him with her sword, he'd be in trouble. Still, he wanted to absorb Master Aren's magical power, and if he did that, Master Aren would be defenseless.

She couldn't have that.

"Hey!" she shouted. "You have my staff, dammit!"

The Priest whirled around and threw another fireball in her direction – one much stronger than the last thanks to the stolen energy from Master Aren. Pursing her lips, Mehra took a gamble, drew the Blade of Woe with her left hand, and charged directly toward him.

Mehra dodged the fireball as best she could. Flames licked at her armor, but the tough dragon scales shielded her from the brunt of the damage.

Knowing that her hands were occupied and couldn't cast a ward, the Priest repeated his tactic. He backed away from her, absorbed Master Aren's magic, and threw more fire in her direction.

If she wanted to get closer to him, she couldn't dodge. She'd have to go through the fire once again, as she had so many years ago within the crater of Red Mountain.

Mehra shielded her eyes and dove headfirst into the oncoming fireball. Above the roar of the flames, she heard Master Aren shout in despair.

The pain nearly took her to her knees. Her skin's natural resistance to fire couldn't withstand such a powerful spell. Still, she found the strength within her legs to charge through the other side to take the undead Priest by surprise.

The first strike from the Ebony Blade into the Priest's flesh took her breath away. It directly absorbed life force from him and fed it to her, partially healing her burns and numbing some of the pain.

With the sword strike immobilizing him, Mehra stabbed him with the Blade of Woe. Though the absorption was weaker, it was enough for her to regain her breath.

"For all of your victims!" she cried. "For all the lives you destroyed! For all the energy you stole!"

She plunged the dagger into his side again, absorbing more of his health. The stench of decay and embalming fluid rose up from his moth-eaten, rotten robes.

Mehra withdrew the dagger. "Never again," she spat.

She beheaded him with the Ebony Blade and his body fell to the ground to die once again. With the last cut of her blade, the last of her burns healed.

Sighing, Mehra sheathed her weapons. The Staff of Magnus lay in front of her, clutched in the Dragon Priest's hand.

Master Aren stood on shaking legs and approached her. "I can't believe it's over," he breathed.

Mehra closed her eyes and sighed deeply. "Azura is just."

Opening her eyes, she knelt down and wrestled the Staff of Magnus from the Priest's grip. It was a tarnished golden staff, with a pointed, crystal bottom, and a clawed top, which held a crystalline orb. Both crystals were an opalescent purple and black, the color ever changing in the light. The body of the staff itself was carved in a simple, geometric design – perhaps, a reference to the order and mathematical properties of magic itself.

It felt and looked the same as she remembered it. Mehra wasn't sure how it was possible that it could be in Labyrinthian for centuries, be found in Morrowind, then return back to Labyrinthian when it was needed in Skyrim.

"You do what you want then, hm?" she murmured.

Master Aren stopped in front of her to marvel at the staff. "I've never seen such a fine staff before," he said. "It is said that it chooses its owners over the years; I suppose that since this is your second time, it must prefer you – if it has a 'will', that is."

"Your guess is as good as mine," she shrugged, "I'm no philosopher."

"I am not either," he replied.

Master Aren peered down at the slain Priest and shook his head. "That stunt you pulled at the end scared me witless. But, I guess you had a plan."

"It was more like a gamble," Mehra admitted. "And I don't like gambling."

He sighed. "I don't either."

Mehra glanced down at the priest and frowned. The holder for the staff was near-ruined, but it was all they had for the time being.

She reached down, unbuckled it from the priest, and tugged the strap out from behind the half-rotten corpse. Master Aren stepped forward to help her adjust it for her height.

"We've got spares at the College," he murmured. "I'll give you one. I wonder; perhaps, you should take that Priest's mask. It has a strong enchantment on it. I'm not into souvenirs, but it could be useful."

Mehra peered down at the eerie, glowing mask. "I suppose since I'm one of them, it would be thought of as my right after defeating him. That's only a guess, though."

She completely pulled that idea out of nowhere and truly had no clue.

Knowing the priest wouldn't have any use of it anyway, Mehra knelt down, unlatched the carved steel mask, and removed it from the priest's face. Without the mask, he looked like any other draugr; sunken, empty eye sockets, sparse hair, gray, leathery skin, and rotten teeth.

She put the mask into her bag, holstered the staff, then motioned for Master Aren to follow. Silently, they made their way out of the meeting hall and back through a narrow passage that hopefully led back to the beginning of the temple ruins.

Mehra led Master Aren up a set of stairs and paused at the sight of a dark-robed figure blocking the door to the next room.

Thalmor.

He stepped forward with a smirk on his face. While he wore the uniform of the Justiciar, Mehra couldn't place his face and figured that he wasn't at the Embassy party she attended.

It was a small relief, at least.

"I'm afraid I'll have to take that staff," he said. "Ancano wants it kept safe."

She wasn't aware that Ancano had anyone under his command, but she supposed that would be something he would have kept to himself so as to appear less intimidating to the College. Perhaps, the Aldmeri Dominion had a suspicion of some sort of power at Saarthal, knew of the College's expeditions there, and wanted to claim it for themselves.

She couldn't let that happen. Mehra drew her sword.

"Ancano sent you, did he?" she frowned. "I'll only warn you once: stand aside."

"Yes," he scoffed. "He told me all about you. You're just another Dunmer peasant girl of loose morals wearing a trashy moon and star ring."

Mehra sucked in a breath. "Noticed that, did you? Well, if that's the case, I can't let you live."

He tilted his head to the side in confusion at her vague reply and readied a spell on his hand.

A massive shock spell blew the Thalmor agent backward and sent him sprawling across the floor, a dry wheeze sounding after.

"And I shall tell you the same that I told your officer," Master Aren spat. "I will not tolerate anyone harassing my students. This young woman has more character than an entire company of your Justiciars."

Mehra sheathed her sword, drew one of the assassin knives tucked away in her glove, and stalked forward toward the downed Justiciar.

The Thalmor coughed as he attempted to laugh in mockery. "Your race is a darkened stain on the purity of mer. When we conquer Tamriel, you will either submit by forsaking the daedra, or be purged."

"Shame you lived your short life without thinking for yourself," Mehra sighed.

She leaned over and stabbed him through the eye socket, plunging the blade as deeply as possible in order to give him a quick death. The Thalmor agent thrashed for a second before falling still. Shaking her head, Mehra withdrew the blade, wiped the blood off onto the slain enemy's robes, and put it back into its hiding place.

"So many youths throwing their lives away these days," she murmured, regarding the young Thalmor.

A hand grasped her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. "It's been this way for the five hundred-odd years I've been alive. We just have to save the ones who will listen. And unfortunately, that is all you can do and it must suffice."

Mehra nodded and turned away. "Makes sense. But we should probably get going. We've got to save the College, and probably the world at large, right?"

Master Aren laughed and motioned toward the door.

As they made their way out of the ruins, Mehra couldn't help but think about how right he was:

They had to save the ones who would listen.

And there was a College full of eager listeners looking for hope and awaiting their return.

* * *

The Gildergreen just wasn't right. Though Heimskr said that the tree was safe, she still found herself somewhat suspicious of it. Aela's moon-born nose picked up something more than mere flowers. She noticed it the very day the blooms opened up.

She watched as Vilkas finished the last of his morning oats and pursed her lips.

"Vilkas, come with me for a moment," Aela said.

Without argument, Vilkas pushed his chair back, stood, and followed her out the front of Jorrvaskr.

She preferred the city this time of day. It was silent and the streets were nearly barren, punctuated only by the occasional early-riser. The smell of hearth fire drifted on the wind as homes throughout the city began to prepare their breakfasts. Occasionally, a groggy citizen shuffled down the street with a bucket in hand toward the nearest well.

It was so foreign from what she knew growing up that it never made her homesick, but the strange scent on the wind – coming from the Gildergreen – reminded her of a tiny cabin in the pine forest that had an overgrown patch of ditch lilies surrounding it.

The strange correlation wasn't new to her; Aela's moon blood gave her the ability to scent out things that a mere human couldn't, and with that came fascinating correlations between different scents.

But, underneath that was an entirely different scent. Aela was certain of what she smelled, but it was so strange that she needed to know that she wasn't the only one smelling it.

Shaking her head, she led Vilkas down the stairs and straight over to the bespelled Gildergreen. She reached up and brought a branch down close to his face.

"Smell it."

Vilkas scowled and rubbed his nose, but did as he was told. In the next second, a look of confusion crossed his face, followed by shock as he placed the scent.

"Erich," he murmured.

Aela let go of the branch. That settled it, then.

She turned her gaze up toward the rainbow of bulb flowers that blanketed the tree. "I trust my nose very well, but it was so strange that I wanted confirmation from someone else."

"That's definitely him," Vilkas frowned. "Aela, he's not right in the head, but doing this to our landmark, hero or not –"

"Hero?" she sighed. "You know something I don't?"

Vilkas visibly paled. "Ah, well, you know, it's –"

"You worried about your loudmouth brother getting hold of this information or something?" Aela asked.

He nodded and turned to the tree again.

"Just between you and me, then," she said.

Vilkas sighed, fidgeted, and ran his hand through his hair. "He's um," he said, "Well, he's the Champion of Cyrodiil. Mehra said so. I may have cornered her on it."

Aela swore. Now that was a secret.

"Makes sense that they've known each other for a long time, then," she mused.

Vilkas sighed again. "Aela, it really can't be spread around. With the war going on how it is – "

"I'm not stupid, brother," she chided. "I imagine both sides would want him. And he is definitely insane; the last thing he would need would to be exposed."

"Just two minutes of talking and the crazy spills out," Vilkas mumbled. "Seems like he traded sanity for forbidden knowledge. I don't even want to know what's creeping around in that head of his."

She swore under her breath. "I'd drink to that one, Vilkas. Can't even imagine it."

Aela crossed her arms and leaned against the tree. Staring up at the flower-heavy branches again, she shook her head.

"I'm rather thick when it comes to these things," she mused, "but does it seem that he and Mehra are more than just friends?"

"No, I saw it too," Vilkas replied. "I suppose she knows what she's doing, though."

Aela nodded. "Likely so. Anyway, thanks for confirming that for me. I thought that was his smell coming from the tree. I'm going to head down to see if Mehra's back from her trip yet."

Vilkas sniffled and rubbed his nose. "Aye. And I'm going to get away from this pollen-filled nuisance."

Aela pushed away from the tree, gave him a nod, and headed down the empty street toward Mehra's home. Last she heard, she was trying to get approval from the Jarl to get a tower built behind the house, and her wizard mentor on Solstheim would help her with its construction.

Or growing, rather. The tower was to be grown; it was a mushroom tower. That would be interesting. It would draw gawkers from all corners of Skyrim and beyond, and hopefully Mehra was prepared for the sudden fame.

Then again, with being dragonborn, Aela figured that Mehra would soon have everyone stopping her in the streets. Soon – Talos willing – Mehra would save the land from dragons and become a hero once again. Maybe, she'd keep her friend Erich with her as a bodyguard of sorts, just to make sure he stayed out of trouble and took care of himself.

A hero and a hero worked out well, maybe. They'd understand each other's needs.

At least, Aela hoped so. Mehra paid her time; she deserved to be happy. Nothing remained of the supposed homicidal maniac that Mehra claimed that she used to be.

Sighing, Aela stopped in front of the door to the modest home and knocked. In less than a minute, the door swung open, but the person on the other side of the door certainly wasn't Mehra. Aela had seen this woman before, though; she used to be part of the Jarl's court.

At least, she thought so.

Mehra's spicy scent drifted out from the home, along with Erich's powerful, pine-like smell, and the scent of sexual activity – each stale to some degree.

Hm. So her suspicions were correct about them. While Aela questioned the idea of an insane man, she supposed he was objectively handsome. But, she wasn't the best judge of male attractiveness; Aela liked –

Well, the woman in front of her was certainly beautiful. She was tall and strong, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. She wore a sturdy set of carved steel armor, and had a similar steel longsword strapped to her side.

"Oh," Aela mumbled, "well, you're not Mehra."

The woman nodded. "I am Lydia, her Housecarl."

Of course. That made sense.

"Ah, I'd heard of that," she replied. "I am Aela, Harbinger of the Companions."

Lydia inclined her head down in a show of respect. "Well met, Harbinger."

"Just Aela is fine," she shrugged. While she took her duties as Harbinger seriously, she certainly didn't think herself better than anyone else.

"Very well, Aela," she said. "Was there something you needed?"

"I – yes. I was looking for Mehra. Is she in?"

No, she wasn't; the smell would be stronger if she were.

Lydia shook her head. "She was due to arrive back in town, but must have gotten held up. Was it urgent? I can pass a message along to her as soon as she arrives back here."

"No, that isn't necessary," she shrugged. "Got a bit bored and was wondering if she was around."

Aela glanced back up to where the Gildergreen sat.

Perhaps, it was merely a two-hundred-something year old wizard making a bouquet for his long-lost friend, presumably in an attempt to woo her.

Absolute ridiculousness, but a little sweet, she supposed. She didn't much care for the 'sacred landmark' thing, but for the sake of Whiterun, she wished he'd chosen another tree. There were a few other large ones within the city.

Maybe the two of them were together right now, even. Could explain why Mehra was late.

Aela turned to leave, but paused in mid-step.

"You hunt, Lydia?" she asked.

"Um, sometimes," Lydia replied, "but not often enough, I suppose."

"Want to come with me sometime?"

Lydia blinked in shock, and Aela wondered if she ought to have not asked. She opened her mouth to tell her to never mind the question, but Lydia gave her a smile that made her forget to speak.

"I'd really like that," she replied. "I'll have to ask my Thane first, of course. She travels so much and I can't just leave the home unattended without checking."

Aela nodded in agreement. "Sounds good. I guess when Mehra gets back in town, we can talk about it. I'll see you then."

"Of course," Lydia nodded. "Until then, Aela."

Aela turned as Lydia gently closed the door. While she already knew that Mehra wouldn't have a problem with Lydia going hunting with her, she also knew that it was proper for her to ask first.

But, that would have to wait until Mehra returned from her trip. It wasn't like her to come back late, and if she was, she certainly wasn't this late.

Where was Mehra? She'd been gone for some time, and while Aela wasn't one to obsess, something wasn't right.

* * *

They arrived on the road that led directly into Winterhold at dawn on an unknown day. For the entire time they traveled, Mehra wrestled with what to tell Master Aren, and what to ask him. They were close enough to the town that if she didn't say something soon, there very well may not be a second chance.

"I'm still piecing this together," she said, "but there is more to this dragon thing than just them coming back. They're being raised from the dead, and I've seen the Master of them all."

Master Aren stared out toward the mountains in front of them. "That's – a lot to take in. How do you know this?"

"Alduin World-Eater has returned," she said. "He is a dragon who brings the end times, according to the ancient Nords. I was in Helgen when he attacked it, and saw him raise a dragon to life outside Kynesgrove. Only a Dragonborn can stop them; we can absorb their souls, much like a soul gem. The ancient Blades divined when he would return in history, and that time is now."

Master Aren frowned.

"I don't like the world ending," Mehra continued. "I'm going to stop him."

He nodded. "Do you need assistance?"

Mehra pursed her lips. Did she dare ask? She supposed she had nothing to lose, at this rate.

"I still need an Elder Scroll," she said. "The leader of the Greybeards says that it is the only way to learn the shout that can defeat Alduin."

Master Aren sighed deeply. "I wish you had told me why sooner," he replied. "I would have helped, had I known the truth."

"Given the College's policy on the profane and dangerous," Mehra said, "I couldn't take that risk. I needed to build my skills rather than risk getting kicked out."

The sun moved behind a thick cloud, casting a shadow over the town. A glance out to the sea revealed thunderclouds on the horizon.

"And yet those policies failed to protect us," he murmured.

Mehra drew in a breath. The sight of Azura's shrine up the path from them and the thunderclouds in the distance – an omen belonging to Sheogorath – comforted her, even with the uncertainty of the upcoming fight.

"Take heart, Master," Mehra said.

He trudged onward, his brow furrowed. "Take heart? You know the mistakes I have made. This is why we impress upon the apprentices to be careful."

"And this is Ancano's mistake," she said.

"So, he will be the sole survivor as well!" he snapped.

Mehra didn't know what to say; everything had gone to hell. But while everything was at its worst, there was always something that could be done.

Master Aren looked ill.

Mehra clenched her jaw as she rubbed her thumb against the band of the Moon-and-Star. With a frustrated sigh, she grabbed his wrist and led him up the path to the shrine.

"Praying to Azura?" he grumbled. "It's too late for that."

She shook her head. "If there's one thing I've learned, it's that it's never too late."

Mehra bounded up the stairs and knelt in front of the altar, resting her hand on its base.

"Great Lady," she murmured. "Bless these wretched hands that once destroyed the greatest evil to threaten your people. Please safeguard the innocents in the town of Winterhold, and the innocents of the College that Ancano has threatened. And if your mercy extends so far, grant Ancano his life so that he may repent of his evils as Master Aren and I have done."

The sudden warmth radiating from her hand through the rest of her body was a shock. It appeared that she had a blessing for the upcoming fight.

"I thank you, Azura," Mehra whispered. She stood then turned to the weary Aren.

"Praying for Ancano's life," he mused. "That's something different. That prayer – it was strange. You said some things that –"

Master Aren trailed off, as if unsure of how to complete his thought.

She ought to just tell him. She knew some of his deepest secrets and his biggest failures.

Mehra shuffled up to him and held her hand in front of him as they made their way back down toward the main road. Curious, he looked down at the Moon-and-Star.

"You're a wizard," Mehra said. "You'll feel the power. Touch it. Don't put it on, but touch it."

They stopped as he grabbed her hand and examined the ring. As soon as his hand touched the metal of the ring's face, it shook. Embarrassed by her omission, Mehra met his gaze.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he croaked. A tear slid down his cheek, and her shame grew.

"I –"

"Anything you needed," he said. "Anything. I would have done anything."

Her eyes blurred with tears. "I don't want that. I want to be normal."

His sudden embrace was strong. The tears fell down her cheeks, hot and full of shame.

"I knew you as a student first," he murmured. "And I shall always know you as the bright, kind woman you are, not a faceless legend."

Mehra drew a shuddering breath. "We have to keep going."

Master Aren stepped back with a sigh. Wiping his eyes, he sniffled and turned toward the College.

"We do what we must, right?" he said.

"Always."

Mehra promised Ysgramor that she'd take care of this orb situation. It was already too much that it had fallen into the wrong hands.

Master Aren stared toward the College, a grim look on his face. "Since you've handled a situation like this before, what do you recommend?"

"I hate to tell you this," she sighed, "but I brute forced my way into Red Mountain and was a mess of potions and enchantments when I fought Dagoth Ur. I do have some daedric items on me that may be of use, if I get desperate."

His frown increased. "You make it sound as if you're going in there alone."

"I am. I fight alone; I always have."

He visibly deflated but said nothing. It was very likely that he knew he couldn't talk her out of it. And while what she said seemed so dramatic, it was the truth:

Mehra always fought alone. When she began her path to the fulfillment of the prophecy of the Incarnate, she had no friends, and kept Aryon away at arm's length. She wasn't everyone's darling like Erich Heartfire; Mehra made herself into a living nightmare, if anything.

Mehra wasn't sure which was worse: to be intentionally prickly, or to lie through one's teeth about liking everyone. She supposed both were losing propositions.

They trudged down the road through the town and Mehra stopped in front of the stairs that led up to the bridge to the College. Pursing her lips, she turned to Master Aren.

"If I die," she murmured, "there is a fork tucked into my glove, on the underside of my forearm. Throw that fork into a summoning circle with a head of cabbage and some cheese."

His jaw dropped. "A – a summoning circle?! Cabbage and cheese?! That's –"

"A daedra will appear," Mehra continued. "Tell him everything. If Ancano is still alive, he will sort that out immediately. Do not interfere with him; if he goes overboard, try to have Tolfdir talk it out with him."

She continued walking, and Master Aren had to jog to keep pace with her.

"You don't get to just walk away after saying something like that," he hissed. "What's this about cabbage and cheese? I know damn well what that's used for."

Mehra stopped, turned her gaze toward the college, and swallowed. She felt an immense power from within; it was too late, and Ancano had already tapped into the orb. Concentrating on the awkward pressure of the fork pressing against her forearm, Mehra closed her eyes.

"Erich, this could be trouble."

Master Aren grabbed her arm, and she opened her eyes to meet his pleading gaze.

"It's from long ago," she said. "The most painful part of my past. Please, don't ask me anything more; just know that if something happens to me, all isn't lost."

He stared at her for a moment, conflict evident on his face. Finally, with a resigned sigh, Master Aren let go.

"Fine. Let's go."

Mehra took off toward the College again, fully aware that her prestige was what made him not press the matter. Had he still thought of her as an apprentice, he wouldn't have dropped it.

She didn't know what to make of that. It was a temporary boon, at least. She'd sort out the fact that someone found her to be different and special again later.

With a scowl on her face, Mehra trudged through the courtyard, ignoring the stares sent her way. She drew the Staff of Magnus from the worn sling on her back, stormed up to the front entrance, and shoved the door open.

The sight of the barrier barring her from the Hall of the Elements made her suck in a breath. It was stronger than it had been days ago.

Mehra turned toward the door of the College, poked her head out, and gave the crowd out in the courtyard a nod.

"It's going to be fine," she said.

With that, she stepped back in and shut the door behind her. No matter what happened to her, everything would be fine; if she died, Ancano would have to face the wrath of Sheogorath.

Mehra approached the barrier and cast an absorption spell at its shimmering surface with the staff. Within seconds, the barrier flickered and died, giving her a view of the inside of the hall.

Ancano stood in the center of the hall, absorbing raw magical energy from the orb. As soon as she stepped into the hall, he turned toward her with a crazed look on his face.

"That staff will do nothing," he laughed.

Mehra glanced back to where the barrier once stood. The staff certainly did just do something, but she held her tongue.

"Ancano, you're looking rough," she said.

"Powerful!" he corrected. "Finally, I have unlocked this orb's secrets!"

Mehra took a cautious step forward. "You haven't uh – been to the bathroom this whole time? No food, I presume? You're definitely not yourself."

He cackled.

"Mortal drivel!" Ancano laughed. "Utter mortal drivel! I have the power to unmake the world at my fingertips!"

Well, there was no talking him out of this. Remembering how the cursed draugr in Saarthal fought, Mehra drew the Blade of Woe in her left hand, keeping the staff in her right. This wasn't a fight for magic.

"As do I," she replied. "God is on my side."

Ancano laughed again and stalked toward her. Throwing his hand up, he cast a barrier at the front door of the College, sealing them in.

"I am God!" he shouted.

She blinked and prepared herself for a fight. The Gods she knew hated it when mortals said such things but she wasn't one to argue:

Mehra was on an assignment. She never questioned the contract.

* * *

Brelyna paced out in the courtyard, glancing at the sparking door to the College. The Arch Mage allowed Mehra in there alone minutes ago with the Staff of Magnus, and it appeared that Ancano quickly sealed it behind her. Yes, Mehra advanced quicker than anyone else, but she was still an apprentice all the same. She wasn't even a senior.

And, to top it all off, Ancano regularly picked on Mehra.

She glanced back at Master Aren in suspicion. What if he was part of it? She had such a hard time thinking that, but there weren't too many more options.

Thankfully, Master Faralda chose that moment to speak up.

"Why did you send the apprentice in?" she frowned. "Yes, she is advanced in destruction, but this is an abnormal situation."

Master Aren's shoulders slumped. "She's more than a mere apprentice," he sighed. "The Psijic Order contacted her to deal with this mess. There's uh – some possible Telvanni connections here – look, you're just going to have to trust me on this. She's more than what she seems. We are in very capable and trustworthy hands."

Brelyna crossed her arms and frowned. "If she were Telvanni, I would have heard of her. She learned levitation recently from Master Neloth – in her own words."

"She's before your time," Master Aren replied, "much before your time. Please, everyone, don't barrage her with questions later. Mehra came here to retrain some rusty skills and I'm confident in saying that she intends no harm to any of us, nor does she practice dark arts."

She glanced toward the shimmering barrier that barred everyone from the College. Just how old was Mehra, then?

"I trust in the Arch Mage's decision," Tolfdir shrugged. "And I have no doubt in Mehra's abilities. I have seen her skill firsthand, and that was the very day she joined us. She has grown in skill by leaps, and is a woman of character and heart. If the Psijic Order and their incredible foresight believes in her, then we must as well."

He gave his typical Tolfdir smile – the one that said everything would be alright and that he was certainly a trustworthy person. If he hadn't been such a talented mage, Master Tolfdir could have easily been a salesman or a conman in his past life. Brelyna found herself believing him despite her reservations. That was the trouble with Tolfdir: he generally got his way all the time.

A quick glance around told her that everyone else agreed. Hopefully, he was right.

The sound of a powerful shock spell hitting the wall inside the College echoed out into the courtyard, and the massive front doors rattled on their hinges. Though she heard the sound every so often since Mehra entered the College, it still made her jump every time.

It gave her hope that Mehra was still fighting, but it also gave her the worry that it was the spell that ended her.

This was too much. That was her friend in there! They ought to storm the door as a group and take him on – the entire College at once. This was the College's mess and they ought to all own up to it, and prove their mettle as mages.

Brelyna turned from staring at the door to suggest this, but froze at the sight of a large figure in a black, shrouded cape and hood walking up the bridge toward the College.

As the figure drew closer, Brelyna made out a man with a powerful build covered head to toe in black leather armor reinforced with ebony. The tips of a daedric crescent peeked out from behind his back – a weapon fit for a strong assassin. His face was covered from the cheeks down in some sort of vented mask, and his black hood was drawn closely over his head.

A pair of intense hazel eyes – there was something off about them – peered out from underneath the dark hood, and from the furrowed angle of his silver eyebrows, she could tell that this man was very unhappy.

He stopped in the middle of the courtyard and peered toward the door to the College with narrowed eyes, even as the crowd of wizards stared at him.

Hm.

Brelyna inched forward, trying to get a better look at the man's eyes. He fit the description of Mehra's ex, but it was so strange that he'd show up here and now.

Master Aren was having none of it. Before Brelyna could warn him, he stepped forward with a frown on his face.

"Who are you?" the Arch-Mage asked.

The cloaked man chuckled. "The devil."

"Your name," Master Aren pressed. "You are dressed like a Brotherhood assassin; I already suspect your nefarious intent, devil."

"My name was Erich."

She knew it the moment she saw his eyes. This had to be Mehra's Erich.

And, like Mehra, Brelyna didn't quite know what to make of him.

He exhaled, the sound coming out of his mask resembling that of a horse. "The Fork's not necessary, Aren," he said. "I'm here with my Crescen; pretenders get their punishment."

Brelyna blinked. Didn't he mean 'crescent'?

Master Aren visibly wilted and she fought the urge to huff in frustration. The administrators were hiding something, especially the Arch-Mage, and especially Mehra. And while she didn't think so highly of herself that she ought to know everything, Brelyna felt that everyone at the College had a right to know about what was going on.

So, if Master Aren wasn't going to say something, then she would.

"Mehra told me about you," she said. "Told me that you're insane."

Erich wheeled around to pin her with his unnerving gaze, making Brelyna wish she hadn't said anything. Mehra was right; he was dangerous. She could tell from one look at him – couldn't even assess his attractiveness if she tried, as he was so unnerving. Her hair stood on end at the sight of him, and something wholly irrational in the back of her mind screamed at her to run.

"She's right," he admitted. "And that's not an insult. It's often that one trades sanity for knowledge. And I know a hell of a lot, now."

He turned back toward the door to the College and shifted his weight. "Telvanni girl?" he asked.

"I am," Brelyna said.

Mehra kissed this man? She didn't want to be within ten feet of him, much less touch him. Brelyna didn't have an explanation for it, other than perhaps, Mehra had a desire for –

Evil, perhaps?

The corners of his eyes wrinkled in a smile. "You'd question a god to his face, I imagine."

"Perhaps," she replied, though she wasn't quite sure what kind of question that was.

Erich suddenly narrowed his eyes and reached for the crescent on his back. In the next second, he slowly relaxed, bringing his hand back down to his side.

"You're going, Sam?" he said. "Ah, I can keep the mask on, that way. Well, aren't you a sweetheart?"

There was a long pause of silence as Brelyna and other members of the College glanced around for the person Erich addressed.

Brelyna sighed. He was insane. There was no 'Sam', and she already knew it. Perhaps, she was scared of him because of the armor. Perhaps, it was the insanity that terrified her.

If it was the latter, that would make her a bit of a wretch, wouldn't it? Brelyna didn't like that and didn't want to accept that as the answer, but maybe, it was true.

"I'll make it up to you," Erich chuckled. "Uh, maybe not at a time when I'm in a 'black and purple' mood, for your sake. Mind yourself with that information, eh? The green in me wants to warn you."

There was another long pause, and Erich scowled deeply beneath his mask.

"Crescen's thirsty, and so are my claws," he mumbled.

Master Aren cautiously stepped forward. "Do you mind telling us why you're here?"

Brelyna winced as Erich turned to pin the Arch-Mage with an intense look. Even Master Aren looked disturbed by Erich's presence, a clear warning sign to Brelyna that the man was as dangerous as Mehra said.

Gods only knew what kind of person this guy was.

"The Fork," Erich groused. "Stay back; I'm addled."

Brelyna cleared her throat as Master Aren took another step forward. Her stomach clenched in anxiety and her heart hammered in her chest. Someone had to stop this from going too far.

"Master," she called, her voice weak.

He stopped in mid-stride to look back at Brelyna.

"If you trust Mehra," she said, "then you have to trust him, too. Please, leave him be."

Master Aren put his hands up in a gesture of appeasement, then slowly backed away.

The courtyard stayed tense as their uninvited guest stared toward the door to the College, as if he could see through it, somehow. After Erich's thinly veiled threats – he was insane, couldn't help it, maybe – everyone kept their distance, and each kept an eye on him.

Brelyna was convinced that the only person capable of getting rid of him was Mehra. She took a good look at him again and still couldn't fathom why Mehra had a difficult time letting such an unhinged, dangerous man go.

At the same time, she did say he was dependable. Mehra was fighting for her life, and Erich showed up out of nowhere.

The doors to the College rattled again, making Brelyna jump. She turned to see that the barrier across the main entrance fell down, but it didn't necessarily mean that the fight was over.

Erich nodded toward the door, and an unseasonably warm breeze blew by soon after.

"He'll be a slug again," he murmured. "Perhaps, death will have been kinder in the end after having a taste of such forbidden power. But, I love them all – broken, little dolls."

Was he talking about Ancano? Loving a person like Ancano, even?

Alright, he was definitely insane.

Brelyna sighed and stared toward the door. Mehra was a powerful apprentice, but she couldn't last forever.

She wished that someone – anyone – would go in there to help.

* * *

The thing about enchanted items was that they needed recharging via filled soul gems. The Staff of Magnus was no different.

Mehra had no clue that the damned thing was nearly empty when she picked it up. She ought to have known better. She ought to have handed it over to Master Aren for his inspection.

Now, she was faced with Ancano behind a barrier with the orb, and her staff was completely out of charge, likely thanks to the Dragon Priest who used it against them.

Ancano knew it. He stood inside his barrier, laughing as he absorbed more magical energy from the orb. Still, it looked as if her earlier efforts with the staff at least weakened him; he had to keep one arm tethered to the orb at all times in order to maintain his barrier.

"You cannot hope to defeat me!" he shouted. "I have unlimited power at my fingertips! Who are you to challenge me, apprentice?"

She heard that before out of the mouths of other mortals who thought themselves to be gods. Both fell to her sword.

If she could break through that barrier, then she could get him. But, without the Staff of Magnus, she couldn't do much to dissipate that kind of magical energy.

She did, however, have a few daedric items on her person – items that could have enough power to possibly take the barrier down.

It was worth a try.

Mehra clipped the staff back into its sling and reached behind her back into her pack. There, in the small flap in the back, lay Sanguine's token. Such a simple artifact, yet it held incredible power; Mehra felt it the second her fingers brushed against it. She wasn't prepared for this fight; days of potion-aided travel and lack of true rest put her in poor condition. Mehra ran her thumb along the stem of Sanguine's rose. Surely, he didn't give them to just anyone.

"I am so sorry for doing this," she mumbled.

She threw the rose as hard as she could at Ancano's barrier. The rose shattered on impact, petals and dark gray smoke drifting away from where it hit the barrier. A lattice of red sparks darted across the barrier, then it broke with a loud crack.

Without wasting a second, Mehra charged in, her dagger in one hand, and her other fist ready to strike or cast as needed.

"Dirty woman!" Ancano shrieked. "Fighting with daedric artifacts! You will face justice for– "

She rammed into him and wrestled him to the ground. In his possessed and physically weakened state, Ancano forgot his training and thrashed against her. Swearing, Mehra struggled against him as he sat up and attempted to escape her grasp. She quickly grabbed the sides of his head, bowed her head, and brought him crashing face-first into her dragonbone helm.

Ancano went limp immediately. Mehra scrambled to catch him before his head could hit the floor. Sighing, she gently placed his head against the stone, made sure he was out – the light snoring gave it away – and stood.

She turned to the Eye of Magnus and frowned. What in Tamriel were they going to do with that thing? She temporarily severed Ancano's connection with it; when he woke up, he'd likely be hell-bent on world domination again if he saw it.

A familiar robed figure appeared in a flash of light. Quaranir approached the Eye as a pair of his fellow monks appeared in a similar fashion.

"You did well, Nerevarine," he said. "It seems that our trust was well placed."

Mehra sheathed her dagger and sighed. "It got dicey there, for a bit. I'm shocked that there were no fatalities."

"Above and beyond our expectations," Quaranir smiled.

She motioned toward the brightly glowing orb in the center of the room. "What about this?"

He nodded to the other monks and they took their positions around the orb.

"We shall take it with us and contain it," he replied. "This plane is clearly not ready for such a thing, which has the power to destroy the entire world if it falls into the wrong hands. We will prevent this."

Knowing that her fight was over, Mehra exhaled in relief and unstrapped her helm.

"You'll get no complaint from me," she said. "The last thing we need is any government getting their hands on this – Thalmor included."

Quaranir nodded. "Agreed. Good luck in your future endeavors, Dragonborn."

"And you as well."

With that, the three monks turned toward the Eye of Magnus. They began to glow purple, and in a brilliant flash of light, were gone in the next second.

Silence filled the Hall of the Elements for the first time since the College dragged the orb out of Saarthal.

Figuring she ought to tell everyone that it was safe to come back in, Mehra buckled the strap of her helm and hung it loosely over her wrist, then sheathed the dagger that she didn't end up having to use.

"Well, well. That was unexpected."

The deep voice echoed through the hall, coming from all directions. There was something familiar about it, but she couldn't quite place the voice.

"You look confused," the voice laughed. "I am Sanguine, mortal."

Immediately, Mehra dropped to one knee. She just broke his gift.

"Sheogorath may answer your summons," Sanguine grumbled, "but I am not your pet atronach, mortal. This is the only time I will help you."

He appeared in front of her a whirlwind of fire, sending a blast of hot air through the hall. Mehra glanced back quickly to check that Ancano was still passed out – thankfully, he was – then looked back toward the Daedra Lord in front of her.

Her heart caught in her throat. He was beautiful and terrifying, in a way entirely different than Erich.

While he had the same glossy, black hair and devilish smirk of the Breton form he chose to disguise himself as, the similarities ended there.

Sanguine was massive. While he was chubby as legend said, he was tall and covered in muscle. Two pairs of horns grew from his skull, one curling downward like those of a ram, and the other pointing upward, the ends of which looked rather phallic.

Intricate red stripes crossed over his black skin, accentuated by a long, crimson loincloth. He wore a pair of golden cuffs, and nearly anywhere one could hang a piercing from, he had one: all up and down his pointed ears, the side of his nose, and a pair of particularly large golden rings through his nipples. Aside from that and a crown of thorny roses, Sanguine wore nothing; even his feet were bare.

"I – I didn't mean to summon you directly, Lord Sanguine," Mehra mumbled, giving him a bow.

"No," he chuckled, "of course you didn't. But I couldn't ignore the shattering of my token. So, here I am."

Sanguine nodded toward the lump of unconscious Thalmor on the floor. "That one was about to cause some serious trouble. I doubt that any of my kin would have appreciated it."

"Then I am glad that my actions have pleased you in some way," she replied.

Shaking his head, he approached the charred rose petals on the floor. He knelt down and tenderly picked them up.

"That barrier," Sanguine chuckled, "when you threw the rose, I poked it with my claw. That is the might of Sanguine, mortal. Do not think that because I am weaker among the seventeen, that I am somehow some sort of glorified dremora."

He stood and pressed his hands together, the remnants of the rose trapped between his palms.

"I am vast. I am stardust. I am dark blood. I am son of the great Void, and equally infinite. There are no words in your mortal tongue which can describe my power."

Mehra forgot to breathe as Sanguine approached her.

He handed the newly formed rose to her and gave her a sad smile.

"You're rough on your presents, you know," he said.

Mehra took it from his hand and gently tucked it into her bag. "I apologize for that," she replied.

Her shaking hands closed the flap on her bag. Sanguine radiated a pleasurable warmth and her breath hitched as she looked up to catch a glance into his molten eyes.

"You're stunning, Lord," Mehra murmured, "absolutely stunning."

He chuckled. "You've seen Azura with your own eyes, though."

"But she's like my mother," she replied.

"Oh, that does make sense. So, mortal; describe me."

Mehra glanced back up at him and her face heated in embarrassment. She'd never seen anything quite like him. Erich was wholly different.

"Sexy," she answered.

"Ah! That is the sweetest praise," Sanguine smiled. "If it weren't for Sheogorath's little obsession with you, I'd take you right here against the pillar."

She cleared her throat and glanced around, unsure of how to process that information.

"You spend a lot of time with Erich?" Mehra asked.

"I do," he nodded. "Most of the time, we end up fucking. He'd snap you like a twig, girl. Roughs me up enough as-is. It's a shame you didn't try him out when he was mortal; knows his way around a body like you wouldn't believe."

"Oh."

She already knew that was the nature of their relationship, but she wondered if there was any sort of emotional component to the whole thing. Erich did mention enjoying Sanguine's company.

"I'm trying to train him," Sanguine offered. "Might be a lost cause, to be honest; he fucks with the force of a mammoth. Look, if you're into big, strong men, I'd have no problem accommodating you. I happen to like little ladies such as yourself."

"I'll keep that in mind," Mehra coughed.

If this was what Sanguine looked like, well –

The Devil certainly tempted her.

"Please do." Sanguine turned to leave, then paused and stared at her in thought. "You tried him recently, didn't you?" he asked.

Mehra nodded shyly. She didn't necessarily want to discuss her failed attempt with Erich, but she couldn't lie to Sanguine's face about it.

"Poor thing," he sighed. "Seeing that which you may not ever be able to have. I'm not certain he'll ever be gentle enough to not kill you. Well, my offer stands. You've got my rose; you know what to do with it."

"Of course, Lord Sanguine. And I will treasure this rare glimpse of your true form."

He laughed and flashed her a brilliant smile. "True form? I'm wearing clothes, mortal."

Mehra blinked and Sanguine was gone.

Shaking her head, she trudged across the lecture hall toward the front door of the College.

Winterhold was safe, thanks to an unlikely hero.


	34. Chapter 34

On my extended absence: I've had health issues that we thought would need surgery (turned out to be my chronic conditions mimicking severe carpal tunnel perfectly), family members have been scheduled to go into surgery, the flu moving through our household, and we are getting our house ready to sell. All this on top of winter being my worst months for my fibro, plus having to readjust my meds due to horrendous side effects, and having to find a new doctor because apparently mine doesn't think fibromyalgia is a debilitating condition. I've had very little time, pain threshold, or energy to sit and write. If I disappear for a while like this again, you can check my tumblr (fortunesque) for news if you're so inclined. Or you can send a comment here; I do my best to reply. I promise though that I am doing my best to update as quickly as I can, which I know isn't very fast sometimes. The past few months have just been a crazy ride.

And, sorry for the long note, but I figured this situation warranted one. I hope you all are doing fabulously :)

PS: I put a tiny, raggedy harbor in Winterhold, mentioned offhand here. I figure any settlement on the coast would have a harbor or docks of some sort. There are even pc mods that expand the game to include some stuff like this. It just makes sense.

* * *

 

_The secret does seem to be hard work, yes, but it's also a kind of blind passion, an inspiration._  


* * *

 

The incident made him pray again for the first time in centuries. Funny how it turned out that way, really:

Going into Labyrinthian made him forget about the Tribunal. Going back into it to face his demons brought him to reconcile Azura and her justice and mercy – something he never thought he'd ever end up considering in his life. He grew up being told that the worship of Azura was heresy.

Savos had a few books on order from Morrowind, actually. He wasn't about to throw himself headlong into daedric worship, but he felt drawn to seek knowledge about it, at least.

After all, Azura sent the Nerevarine to Winterhold, after some fashion.

He'd have to see what Mirabelle thought of all of this, eventually. She was too irked at the moment about the sudden appearance and disappearance of that Brotherhood assassin around the time that Mehra entered the College to fight Ancano.

Savos followed quickly after Mirabelle once Ancano was dealt with. It appeared that she wasn't ready to accept that the cloaked assassin simply disappeared, and she wanted to get to the bottom of it.

So he watched as Mirabelle asked Brelyna about the man, wincing when he found out that he was Mehra's ex, and that he took it upon himself to stalk her to the College to ensure that she was safe. Given that he was said to be an insane mage – in Brelyna's words – Savos felt that he ought to at least ask Mehra about the matter.

Mehra stonewalled him. The best she would tell him was that the assassin would protect her, and not intentionally harm those she cared for. Other than that, she said that she refused to speak any more on the matter.

He had a feeling that it had to do with insanity, that fork she said she had, cabbage, and cheese.

Perhaps, the assassin was a high-ranked priest of Sheogorath. Savos couldn't really say; both Sheogorath worshipers and the Dark Brotherhood were secretive in their practices, for good reason.

Like Mirabelle, he didn't like dropping the matter, but they certainly had no say in it. The only other alternative was researching Sheogorath and the Dark Brotherhood, and Savos knew that doing such a thing would only lead to ruin. He much preferred to read about Azura, who actually had a positive record to her name.

Savos marked his place in his book and sighed. He couldn't concentrate on his reading until Ancano was out of there for good. From the moment he awoke, he was cooperative and agreed to have a letter written to his superiors about leaving the College. They mutually agreed that it was in Ancano's and the College's best interests to make the split as amicable as possible – false pretenses though it was.

The last thing he wanted was another Thalmor representative sent to the College to harass his apprentices, and the Nerevarine herself. Gods! Ancano was lucky that she didn't kick his teeth in for the things he said to her.

The clock tower chimed above him, signaling the turn of the hour, and the time at which Mirabelle and Tolfdir were to meet him for a short conference. If things were to shape up around the College, Savos needed their help.

In less than a minute, he heard two sets of footsteps echoing up the stairwell below. Voices followed soon after, Mirabelle's youthful voice contrasting sharply with Tolfdir's old, withered one.

Tolfdir was much too old for such a young wizard, but that was the price one paid for never, ever indulging in secret and dark arts. As the Arch-Mage, Savos watched Tolfdir grow from being a very green apprentice to a Master Wizard overseeing classes of his own.

Much happened in those two hundred or so years. He remembered Tolfdir desperately trying to get information for his cousin, eventually gaining Savos' approval for an interview. But, when the time came, said cousin disappeared from the province without a trace.

The broken-hearted Tolfdir wrote home every so often asking for news of said cousin, but nothing panned out. Eventually, they had matters of closing Oblivion gates to attend to.

It got too close to home for Tolfdir. Oblivion opened up outside his Aunt and Uncle's farm; by the time the College arrived, Tolfdir's family were dead and the land had been salted with Void Salts. Still, dozens of dead daedra littered the ground outside the tiny farm, riddled with wounds from a wood-axe and a scythe. The untrained farmers fought until their last breath. It seemed that Mehrunes Dagon sent an unstoppable force to the farm, intentionally.

Hell had a grudge against Tolfdir's family. They never found out why, and it vexed Savos more than it ought to have. Tolfdir was always a good student; in fact, he didn't bother with conjuration, even.

What did Oblivion have against those people?

Dreams of Labyrinthian were replaced with helping Tolfdir scrape the remains of Jorik and Ilse Heartfire from the walls of a tiny farmhouse. Still other times, he dreamed that they arrived in time to save them, his mind's eye conjuring what he figured they may have looked like, given the remains were so mutilated. Other times, he dreamed that Tolfdir's missing cousin had returned home, only to die at the hands of the daedra.

Even two hundred years later, Tolfdir confessed to occasional nightmares of that time. Savos couldn't blame him; it was a horrifying scene.

"Savos, you've got a long stare there."

He sighed as Tolfdir crossed the foyer with Mirabelle by his side. Pushing back his chair, Savos stood and walked over to meet them.

"I've got a lot on my mind, Tolfdir," he admitted. "The three of us need to have a chat about a few things – things that absolutely cannot leave this room."

Mirabelle frowned. "Things that might have to do with why an apprentice is connected to the Black Hand?"

He shook his head and pointed toward a set of chairs circled around a nearby table.

"Oh, so we're going to have to sit to hear this one?" Tolfdir chuckled.

Savos pulled a seat out from the table for Mirabelle, then grabbed one of his own. Sighing, he put his head in his hands.

"Yes, Tolfdir," he said, "I can hardly believe what I'm about to say."

He looked up at Mirabelle, who sat back with her arms crossed.

"Well, any word on that assassin?" she frowned.

"I'd advise against further questioning," Savos replied. "She's a Telvanni Master from the late Third Era."

"So, you're saying she may have known the Nerevarine?" Mirabelle asked.

Savos winced. He wasn't really prepared to answer that one.

"Savos."

He looked up to see her glowering. Still, worse than that was Tolfdir and his coy smile.

"Now I know the Arch-Mage surely wouldn't be keeping information from his trusted advisers," Tolfdir said. "I cannot imagine how we would go on, with such a rift in the leadership, especially after old Tolfdir told the College to trust the Arch-Mage and his judgment–"

"Alright, fine," he hissed. "But you absolutely cannot share this, and you cannot let Mehra know that I told you."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Certainly."

Savos drew a deep breath. He glanced back at the stairwell and wished for a door on the damned thing. Cursing his own policy, he figured he ought to get it over with.

"Mehra is the Nerevarine," he said. "That's why she came here; she was imprisoned in Akavir for two centuries and needed to retrain her skills. As Dragonborn, she is the only one who can stop the plans of Alduin, the leader of the dragons said to bring the end times."

He waited as his words sunk in, but neither reacted.

"She needs an Elder Scroll," Savos continued. "That's what this meeting is about; I need your discrete help in tracking down where in the world to find one."

"Certainly!" Tolfdir beamed. "I always maintained that Mehra was an extraordinary young lady. It turns out I was partially correct – er, she's not so young, I suppose."

Mirabelle shook her head. "That sounds so," she murmured, "so far-fetched."

He understood that. Truthfully, had he not felt the power in the Moon-and-Star, he wouldn't have believed it, either. But it was true.

"I know," Savos said. "But that Moon-and-Star ring she wears is most certainly of daedric persuasion. Legend says that Kagrenac created it, and Azura herself blessed it. The ring looks Dwemer, yet has that very specific daedric 'feel' to it. I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that she is who she claims to be."

She sighed and gave him a smile. "I trust you, Savos," she replied, "now more than ever."

Tolfdir cleared his throat. "I do as well, but not – not quite like that. I'm a bit old for private liaisons."

Mirabelle visibly paled and Savos sucked in a breath. Well, of course Tolfdir knew; he was the most person-savvy person he'd ever met. It was only a matter of time before he caught on.

Likely, he knew that they were attracted to each other before they even figured it out.

"Please, not a word about that to anyone else," Savos said.

"So many secrets," Tolfdir smiled. "Of course I'm not telling anyone; I do my best to be a man of my word."

"I trust you, Tolfdir," Savos said.

Mirabelle nodded in agreement. "I believe we all trust each other," she said, "else this meeting wouldn't have been called. Now; an Elder Scroll shall be quite a challenge. Still, it is not as if we are searching for the Oghma Infinium, so I believe that if anyone can do it, it's the three of us."

"Shall we wager on it?" Tolfdir chuckled.

Savos sighed and stared out the stained glass window in the foyer. The mountains beyond the College were still and quiet, and the sun had disappeared altogether.

"We are wagering," he murmured. "We're wagering our lives, at this point."

Thunder sounded in the distance – another spring storm coming off of the ocean, it seemed. Ever since the Eye had been taken care of, thunderstorms happened daily. Savos wouldn't have thought anything of it before the incident, but –

Perhaps, it was an omen of some sort.

Thunder rumbled again, and briefly, he was tempted at the notion of cabbage and cheese. He was a very powerful wizard; a Daedric Prince would heed his summons.

No, that was trouble. He was better off waiting for the storms to end entirely, and bring an offering of glow dust up the mountain.

Still, he couldn't help but ponder the meaning of the thunderstorms.

 

* * *

 

 

They made roost on a deserted island to the northeast of Keizaal, within the ash-fall area of the great volcano to the southeast. It was as good of a place as any; the ash screened them from prying eyes of the joor, as well as giving them warmth from the cold north. Most of them weren't fo dov, and the fo dov didn't mind the warmth much in the least.

The ash still made the lot of them sneeze. That volcano was bad news. Odahviing called it thousands of years ago and stayed out of the ash as best he could; he didn't want to get rot under his scales, vibrant red and feminine though they were.

He watched as Alduin wallowed in the ash like a pig. Alduin hunched down in the ash and wriggled until he buried himself up to his nostrils in the sulfuric waste. A few of the others watched this and imitated him like sheep.

Odahviing stayed perched on his rock above the ash. He didn't want to touch the mess.

He turned his eyes to the sky as Nahagliiv circled above. Their revived ally was back from scouting; surely, he had news from the mainland.

Nahagliiv drifted downward and settled down into the ash, kicking a plume of it up into the air. Odahviing shielded his face with his wing. Idiot.

Alduin lifted his head from the ash and regarded the newcomer with his glowing red eyes. "Drem yol lok. How goes the pathetic little dovahkiin?"

Nahagliiv let out a loud sigh. "She wears Mirmulnir."

Alduin sat up. "Wears him?"

"His skull, his hide, his bones," Nahagliiv explained. "He is her armor, now. I sensed her lah; given I was scouting, I did not want to test that along with her rumored thu'um. If we had priests, they would perhaps know rumor of the strength of her magical power as well. Seemed well above average, however."

How fortunate for him, then, to be all over a joor in death. Mirmulnir had an obsession with watching the joor mating – best he was gone; it was borderline bestiality. Odahviing always found him particularly distasteful and didn't like that he had Alduin's ear so often.

Alduin growled in frustration and turned his eyes toward Solstheim. The mere mention of priests was a sore spot with him; Miraak was back, somehow, and he made his bed with Hermaeus Mora in order to escape his duties to Alduin and the other dov.

Sending scouts to the island was a disaster. They never came back, presumed dead or worse by Miraak's hands. Alduin didn't understand it. In the old times, Miraak was his prized priest. Didn't he give Miraak riches? Status? Power? Females to rut on top of his altar of conquest?

But Odahviing knew exactly what Miraak wanted: freedom. Unfortunately for him, being under Hermaeus Mora was a losing prospect; he specifically captured mortals and put them in a library hedge-maze full of unreadable books for an eternity. The Daedra Lord must have seduced Miraak with the promise of much power.

"Fascinating that she is fahliil," Nahagliiv mused. "and one of the dark ones, at that."

"I have not seen a fahliil dovahkiin," Alduin agreed. "Didn't think they were possible."

Dunmer, they were called. And foolishly, Alduin didn't even make an attempt to ally with the dovahkiin; his conquering would be easier with such a person on his side. Perhaps, a fahliil dovahkiin would approve of an elven uprising against the human overlords who kept them under thumb for centuries. Alduin could have been that great, shining beacon of hope for the proud, colonized Dunmer people. He could raise an army of mages and spearmen and teach them to speak in fire!

But, no; Alduin was simple – always simple.

They really had no idea what a dovahkiin of elven origin was capable of, given there was no precedent for such things. Her kind was also known to associate with the daedra. She could have extremely powerful allies. Alduin was a fool if he thought he could crush the little one so easily.

Alduin turned his head in Odahviing's direction and smirked.

"Odahviing," he called, "My pretty cousin. You are quiet lately."

The dov present snickered at him and Odahviing fought the urge to growl.

"I am wondering what we ought to do with Paarthurnax," he lied.

Alduin laughed and shifted down into the ash. "That idiot isn't even a fo dov and he's roosting on the tallest mountain on the continent," he scoffed. "Probably fat and half-blind now. Let us subjugate the joor he so loves and let him watch helpless as we do it."

"Yes, of course, cousin," Odahviing replied.

"I am right and you know it, pretty cousin."

Odahviing ignored the derogatory descriptor. He didn't believe Alduin's boast for a second. Even if Paarthurnax wasn't in fighting shape, he could teach the joor same as he did last time. And if he taught the dovahkiin a thing or two –

Odahviing watched as Alduin buried his head in the ash. If Paarthurnax taught the dovahkiin, then it would serve Alduin right if the little joor became his downfall.

 

* * *

 

 

Her stomach clenched in anxiety as the ship tied up at the harbor. She was well over two weeks late picking Neloth up, and Mehra knew that he wasn't one to have to rely on the promptness of others.

More importantly, she hated to worry anyone at Tel Mithryn.

The sight of Redoran guards running down the dock toward the Councilor's manor brought her out of her thoughts. Mehra shifted her pack on her back and turned to the captain of the ship.

"Got an important shipment, Gjalund?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Nothing to run to the Councilor about. I ain't seen them types run before; usually they seem to haste without moving fast. Oddest thing."

Mehra laughed and grabbed his hand as he helped her up onto the dock.

"Well," she said, "I guarantee that if a crime happened, they'd appear out of damned nowhere. Even these country Redoran have excellent training."

Gjalund stared off into town in confusion and Mehra followed his gaze. A pair of men in expensive clothes walked side by side toward the dock, followed by the priest of the Temple. Accompanying them were half a dozen guards, each one ranked, judging by the markings on their bonemold armor.

"I usually deal with the Second Councilor," Gjalund murmured, "not the actual Councilor. And here both are coming up to the dock."

Mehra pursed her lips. "I did clear out the ash creatures from the temple the last time I was here," she mused. "Perhaps this is a 'thank-you' party."

"With armed guards?"

"Yep," she nodded. "Redoran are about that. Ha! Maybe they'll try to induct me into the House. But I'm from House Telvanni, their rival house."

"Perhaps they're kicking you out, then," Gjalund shrugged.

Mehra swore under her breath. It wouldn't be the first time. If they did try to kick her out, well –

She wished she had Erich with her at a time like this. He could likely not only talk them into letting her stay, but giving her some form of made up benefits.

"Well, look sharp," Gjalund mumbled, "they're definitely looking at you and not me."

The company stopped in front of her and she sucked in a breath. They had her cornered. Of the group, she only recognized Othreloth from the Temple behind the Councilors, and Second Councilor Arano in the front.

The man next to Councilor Arano stepped forward. He was short, fit, and well-groomed, with coppery hair shaved on each side of his head and left long in the center. Like any proper Councilor, he wore the best finery he could get – yet practical clothing, much in Redoran style. He brought a hand up to rub his goatee in thought and stared at her as if trying to figure her out.

"I am Councilor Lleril Morvayn," he said, "serving on the Redoran Council in matters involving the House and Morrowind at large. My Second here says that you know Master Neloth to the east."

"I do."

"Othreloth says you may have some history," Councilor Morvayn said.

"We do."

His eyes darted down to look at her hand and her heart stopped. He noticed the Moon-and-Star.

This was not the kind of visit she wanted. Ever.

He reached into his breast pocket and Mehra caught a glimpse of something that shone brightly in the sun.

"I have something for you," he said. "It is my hope that will aid you in your coming quest. The fighting spirit of House Redoran will be behind you, always. And you are always welcome in my home."

"And mine as well," Councilor Arano nodded.

Councilor Morvayn stepped forward and pressed something into her hand, then quickly stepped back. Opening her hand, Mehra peered down to see House Redoran's Ring of the Hortator.

It was an exquisite ring of white gold, inlaid with a golden seal in the shape of a warrior wearing bonemold armor with a crested helm that resembled one of the old Temple Ordinators.

"If you need it re-sized–"

"Nah," Mehra shrugged. "I'm sure it'll fit one of these fingers, hm?"

She eyed the ring and slid it onto the middle finger of her left hand, next to the Moon-and-Star which occupied her index finger. The fit was about as close to perfect as she'd get without being a nitpicker; it wouldn't fly off in combat, and that was the important part.

Immediately, she felt the ring's heavy enchantment take effect. It made her body itself tougher and able to withstand more injury than without the ring. A health fortification enchantment of this magnitude was difficult to create, and she wondered how the magically-challenged Redoran were able to create such a thing.

It was likely that the old Temple provided the service. They wouldn't have asked Telvanni for help; not now, and certainly never in the past.

"Look, right next to Mother's ring, even," she smiled. "Thank you, Councilor."

Mehra held her hand up for them to see their ring next to the Moon-and-Star on her hand. She supposed it was fortunate for her that the fabled ring fit on her largest finger – the perks of being large for a Dunmer woman. Nobody dared to scold her for wearing her signet on the wrong finger, regardless.

"A most pleasing sight," Councilor Morvayn replied. "Now, we will leave you to your business. If there is anything you require of us, you need only but ask."

She gave them a nod. "And likewise, Councilors. If you come across trouble in town, please send word to my residence in Whiterun. Tell the Courier to send correspondence to the Thane of Whiterun; it is my title. I'm – uh – well, I'm not the quickest, given I'm not home half the time, but, the offer does stand nonetheless."

"We are a quiet town, but your offer is appreciated," the Councilor replied. "Thank you. We wish you strength in all your battles."

Mehra thanked him and the others present, then made her way down the dock. As she wandered through the small town, she thought about what being discovered would mean going forward. Even if people in Skyrim started knowing who she was, she supposed it wouldn't make too much of a difference until she ran into another Mer, in particular, one of her own kind.

The people in Raven Rock stared at her as usual, and if they knew her true identity, she couldn't rightfully say. Mehra supposed that if they knew, they'd be a bit more open in their staring than usual.

She sighed as she gave the guards at the bulwark a quick nod and passed through out onto the road that led east. It was only a matter of time before she was discovered; it was foolish to think she could hide forever.

And if she were honest with herself, Mehra knew that it was somewhat selfish to hunker down and hide.

It seemed that the past year was full of constant moments of self-reckoning.

Mehra swung her pack from her back and propped it up on a nearby rock as she fished through it to find her scarf. Her hand brushed by Sanguine's token and by Azura's Star, the alternating odd sensations sending a chill up her arm. Finding the scarf at the bottom of her bag, she pulled it out of the bag, folded it, and began to wind it around her nose and mouth.

It wasn't much – just a cheap, threadbare scrap of linen that was probably once part of a Nord's pants – but it did its job well enough, and it was brown to match Telvanni color.

With her face as protected against the ash as much as she could on a budget, Mehra shouldered her bag and continued down the road. Each step brought the sinking feeling that soon, the whole of Morrowind would be knocking on her door, asking for her help in their troubles.

She couldn't do it. Mehra was a fighter, a mage, and a mediocre assassin. She wasn't an architect, economist, trader, or farmer – things that Morrowind actually needed.

The shadow of Tel Mithryn came into view on the horizon and she drew in a shuddering breath.

"It's fine," Mehra whispered. "It's fine. Everything is fine."

Flashes of light illuminated the ground in the distance – purple; the color of a conjuration spell. As she drew closer, Mehra saw Talvas outside the tower practicing his spells, his face dutifully covered. He perked up immediately at the sight of her and waved to her.

She smiled despite her sour mood and picked up her pace to meet him on the path leading up to the tower.

"Mehra!" Talvas smiled. "I'm glad you made it. You alright?"

Mehra sighed and shook her head. "It's – fine. Everything is fine. It will be, at least."

"Sounds rough," he replied. "You've got some strong shoulders. I hope – well, I hope we're able to give you a break once in a while here."

"You are," she said. "I don't know what I'd do without Tel Mithryn, honestly."

Talvas motioned toward the tower and escorted her to the door.

"Well, I'll take the liberty to speak on his behalf," he said, "but we're all happy to have you here, Neloth included. If I didn't know him better, I'd almost accuse him of being cheerful when you visit."

Mehra snorted as he opened the door for her. "Well, I don't know if that's something he'd want to be found guilty of."

"Certainly not," Talvas mumbled.

Together, they made their way to the top of the tower. As soon as Mehra's feet touched the floor, Neloth looked up from his reading, sat back, and crossed his arms.

"This will be good," he drawled. "The note was vague."

Mehra laughed and slung her pack down from her shoulders. "Well, hello to you, too, sunshine."

She saw Talvas flinch out of the corner of her eye. Had Neloth really been that surly while she was gone?

Well, this was Neloth, and she was very much late.

"It was actually very important," Mehra said. "A Thalmor agent got tangled up with a magical artifact and attempted to destroy the College. Scratch that; he tried to destroy the world."

"I presume that's what the new staff is about?" Neloth asked, motioning toward the new addition strapped to her back.

Mehra nodded. "The Staff of Magnus? Yeah. It's out of charge, though."

His eyes widened in shock and he sat up. "The actual – ?"

She nodded again. "The actual, real Staff of Magnus. Guess it likes me, choosing me a second time like it did."

Neloth sighed and sat back in his chair.

"And I presume you put everything in order?"

"Had some unlikely help, actually," she said.

Mehra leaned down, fished around in her bag, and withdrew Sanguine's token.

"The guy put up a barrier that I couldn't dispel," she said, "so I threw this at it."

Neloth narrowed his eyes, stood, and stepped forward to examine the rose. He reached toward it, then thought better of it and dropped his hand.

"That artifact wouldn't have dispelled a magical barrier," he sighed. "It's a conjuring token."

Mehra stared down at the rose. So, Sanguine was watching and waiting for the right moment.

"I'm not explaining how I got this," she mumbled.

Neloth backed away and shook his head. "Please don't. But, why Sanguine?"

"He's on good terms with Sheogorath right now," she said. "Now that I think of it, he must have done it as a favor for him, so that Sheogorath could keep his mortal disguise around the College. It was bad enough that a Brotherhood Assassin showed up outside to keep watch. That's my best guess."

"Be cautious with these things," Neloth frowned. "And let's recharge that staff. Damn if you aren't going to end up using my best soul gems, regardless."

He motioned toward the enchanting room while Talvas looked on in awe at the staff. Wordlessly, Mehra drew it from the sling on her back and walked with Neloth toward the enchanters at the far end of the tower.

Neloth gathered an assortment of filled grand soul gems and brought them over to the enchanter. Without delay, he began the process of recharging the staff, going through three gems before removing the staff from the enchanter and examining it.

With a bit of polishing and care, the Staff of Magnus looked magnificent once again. Mehra worked on it on the voyage to Solstheim, using polishing oils and cloths that she bought from Winterhold. She had a bit of laundry hanging around in her bag from the process, but it was well worth it to see the staff back in good shape, and to see the look on Neloth's face as he looked at it.

"I polished it on the way over," Mehra said. "The undead Dragon Priest who had it let it get in a despicable state."

Neloth nodded. "The staff deserves better; you care for your equipment."

"I do my best."

"You know how to maintain a sword?" she asked.

"Of course," Neloth snorted. "I am not a slob."

He drew the ebony dagger at his side and held it out. Leaning in, Mehra examined it to see that it was in flawless condition from handle to tip, and the blade glistened with just the right amount of oil.

"The best offense is doing maintenance yourself," he said.

"Absolutely agreed," she nodded. "Anyone else could get it wrong. Not that ebony and daedric items rust, but it's still important. What do you think this is made of?"

Neloth pursed his lips, sheathed the dagger, and took another look at the Staff of Magnus.

"Difficult to say," he murmured. "If the legends are true, it is of the Dawn Era and predates even Ehlnofey. Gold may be present, as it is the most stable of the metals. That is the only guess I can provide without damaging a priceless artifact."

Mehra shrugged. "Regular polishing cloths worked well enough. I suppose it'll have to remain a mystery."

Neloth handed the staff back to her and sighed. In the next second, he leaned in to stare at her with narrowed eyes.

"What's this circlet?" he frowned.

"A gift from the Arch-Mage of Winterhold."

He narrowed his eyes further. "A gift."

Was he jealous? Goodness sake, Master Aren reminded her of Aryon, more than anyone.

"He's seeing his Master Wizard-Second," she sighed. "And nobody knows about that but me, alright? So keep that secret when we show up there, along with my true identity. I'm a Telvanni Wizard, for all they know. Master Aren knows my secret, but he's the only one."

Neloth visibly relaxed and shrugged. "Fine. Now, I suppose you want your Robe of the Hortator to match that new Redoran ring you have?"

Mehra blinked in shock. He noticed that?

"I shall take that as a yes," he groused.

She shook herself. "I – yeah," she murmured. "You just have this stuff laying around?"

"Why wouldn't I? I'm rich, aren't I?" he shrugged.

He stepped out of the enchanting room and shouted for Talvas. Giving him an elaborate set of directions of where the item was located in storage, Neloth dismissed him quickly without telling him exactly what he was looking for, other than 'item A256B'.

Talvas shuffled across the tower toward the levitation portal with his head down, obviously used to getting such terrible directions.

She shook her head and turned to Neloth. "Got your bag ready?" she asked.

Because if he didn't, it'd be an excellent time to help him figure it out, since he never left the house.

"Yes," he grumbled. "I am not entirely ignorant."

Mehra held her hands up in defense. "Alright, I just wanted to make sure. And I've got the food we'll need. Oh, how much do I owe you for those soul gems?"

Neloth blinked in confusion. "Nothing. I'm rich."

"Really?"

He made such a big stink about it to begin with that she figured she'd owe him for the ones they just used. Maybe, it was a case of 'your tower; your responsibility' rather than a matter of money.

The front door to the tower closed, and the levitation portal activated. In the next second, Varona drifted to the top with a tray of tea in her hands.

"Varona, tell the girl how rich I am," Neloth drawled.

She sighed deeply and put the tray down on a nearby table.

"He's a billionaire," she said.

Neloth nodded in agreement. "So you see why repaying me is useless, yes? Once you become likewise, then you can –"

He paused and motioned for Varona to come closer. Reluctantly, the steward shuffled over, furrowing her brow in confusion as Neloth leaned down to murmur an order to her.

"An excellent idea, Master," she said.

Neloth drew back with a scowl. "You have no idea what I'm planning to do with it. Now, shoo!"

Varona shrugged and left the main floor, a wry grin on her face. Mere minutes later, a door closed and opened, and voices drifted up to the top of the tower. Neloth glanced in the direction of the noise with narrowed eyes.

"Irritating at times," he grumbled, "but a damned good steward of my belongings. Talvas would have mucked it up."

Mehra bit back a laugh. It certainly seemed like Varona to be on top of these sorts of things.

The pair drifted to the top of the levitation portal. Ever the gentleman, Talvas carried the items for Varona, crossed the tower, and handed them to Neloth.

"Well, Hortator," Neloth said, "come get your robe."

Mehra pursed her lips as he opened the first package. "I'm not a robes person."

He rolled his eyes. "Then just take the silk stole and turn it into something disgusting like a belt. Gods, but you make a poor mage."

Mehra narrowed her eyes and eyed the stole from the robe. Maybe, she'd do that, just to spite him. Fighting to hide a smirk, she grabbed the stole, then tied it around her waist exactly as he said. While the stole wasn't as heavily enchanted as the robe itself, it was still enchanted to give her a modest boost to her magicka reserves.

"You come up with the best ideas, Neloth," she smiled.

"Wonderful," he drawled. "Well, perhaps you will wear the next one as intended."

Neloth tore open the package and handed her a folded piece of brown silk embroidered in gold. This, too, had a fortify magicka enchantment on it, and the item's threads shimmered with the powerful enchantment.

"Please, just look like a Master somewhat for once," he frowned.

"Oh, my heart," Mehra sighed. "I am devastated to find out that you find me so – so – un-masterly."

She unfolded the cloth and held back a gasp. It was a beautiful half-cape of gold and brown, with a cowl-neck and a pointed back lined in golden fringe. The cape was covered in House Telvanni's swirled designs – reminiscent of magic and the tendrils of the mushrooms in which they lived. If anyone knew of House Telvanni and saw her wearing this, they'd certainly know that she was one of them.

Mehra let out a breath. She never had something so beautiful and meaningful before in her life.

"You know I was just being sassy with you, right?" she said.

Neloth sighed deeply. "Of course. You wouldn't be you if you weren't."

Mehra took in the cape again. "This is so – so – I've never had such a nice –"

She didn't even know what to say.

Neloth crossed the space between them, grabbed the cape, and began to remove the medal that Whiterun gave her.

"Well, let's put it on, hm?" he said. "Clip the medal onto it like it ought to be. You are a Telvanni Master, yes?

Mehra stared on in bewilderment as he unclipped the medal and tossed the cape over her shoulders.

"I – yeah."

"Eloquent," he said. "Varona, what about this front part? Do – whatever young people would do to it; I don't know."

Varona stepped forward to pick at the cape and arrange it on her shoulders. Humming to herself, she arranged it to hang from Mehra's left shoulder and stepped back to take a look.

"Foppish," Neloth grumbled.

Varona rolled her eyes and Mehra chuckled under her breath. Centering the cape on Mehra's shoulders, Varona fluffed the cowl neck and picked at it until it looked a certain way, then carefully leaned in to clip Whiterun's symbol of office to the front center of the cape.

"I think that will do it," she smiled. "You look lovely, Madame."

Neloth peered at Mehra with narrowed eyes for a moment, then nodded.

"Proper, at least," he groused. "Now, we leave in the morning, correct?"

Mehra nodded. "The _Northern Maiden_ will be leaving tomorrow morning for Winterhold. Don't expect the city or harbor to be impressive; they had a huge disaster that wiped out the city a hundred or so years ago and they still haven't recovered."

"The state of their city is of no concern to me," he shrugged.

Good; then they wouldn't have any issues, hopefully. Mehra spent the extra coin to have Gjalund take them directly to Winterhold instead of Windhelm, and she figured it would be worth it. The last thing she needed was Neloth to see the Gray Quarter, nor experience Windhelm's particular brand of hospitality toward Dunmer.

The rest of the day was spent in discussion of the Eye of Magnus, the Staff that helped quell its power, and theories behind the Eye's origin. Even with a book of forgotten runes at their fingertips, none of the characters that Mehra saw on the orb were close to anything that made it through history.

She supposed it would have to remain a mystery – for better or for worse. It seemed that the Psijics had pure intentions and Mehra would have to trust her instincts on that.

She didn't like having to do that, uncanny dragonborn instincts aside. Mehra preferred to deal in facts rather than feelings, and it seemed as if recently, her instincts were all she had to go off of.

Neloth understood that. He, too, dealt in facts. The core of his research revolved around parsing out what was fact among a slew of possibilities.

As they gathered their bags the next day for their trip to the mainland, Mehra found herself once again grateful that she found the courage to contact Neloth, then return to his tower once she relearned some of her skills.

He could help her build a magnificent tower, yes; but it was much more than that. Despite his gruffness, Neloth was an excellent person with which she could discuss her strategy against Alduin candidly.

And he always had some valuable insight. He wasn't necessarily comforting all the time, but truth held more weight to her than anything else.

She owed it to him to give him the best trip away from his tower possible. Perhaps the hero-worship of the apprentices of Winterhold would charm him; she couldn't rightfully say.

They said their goodbyes to Tel Mithryn – with Mehra doing most of the talking – and headed down the road toward Raven Rock.

Neloth's footsteps were strangely quiet on the road – quiet like those of Aela or Athis – and his posture was straight as his gaze flickered around the area to look for signs of danger.

It wasn't the behavior she expected of a wizard; Master Aren certainly didn't act as such. It reminded her more of a soldier or a spellsword.

Mehra drew in a breath and stared off toward the horizon. His body was covered in scars that one wouldn't expect on a wealthy wizard. Who was this man, really? How many lives had he led? Where had he come from, so many thousands of years ago?

After three thousand years of life, did Neloth even remember some of these things?

Mehra found herself afraid to know, after the things she learned about Erich.

They traveled on in a companionable silence, reaching the harbor town by the time that the small market opened up. At the sight of them on the road, one of the guards posted at the bulwark left his post and ran into town.

Mehra sighed. "Again with this."

"Being important is tedious, isn't it?" Neloth frowned.

She laughed and shifted her pack on her back.

"That wasn't a jest," he shrugged.

Mehra shook her head. He was always the serious one.

Together, they crossed into town, ignoring the stares sent their way. She wasn't sure if it was due to Neloth's presence, or if her identity was spread around town, but they certainly did seem to be paying much more attention to her. Everywhere she glanced, people stopped in their business to stare openly at the two of them.

She found herself not particularly wanting to know if the people of Raven Rock knew who she was.

Aside from the stares and the odd whisper or two, the walk through town was uneventful until they rounded the edge of the bulwark to stand at the entrance to the harbor.

The Redoran Councilors stood in the middle of the main dock, blocking the way to the _Northern Maiden_. Clearing her throat, Mehra leaned over to Neloth and quietly pointed them out to him.

"Oh, I am well aware of that," he shrugged, not giving a care as to the volume of his voice.

"As I recall," Neloth continued, "the Morvayn family had a big disgrace over an invasion of ash creatures. The blighted things trashed the manor and killed the Councilor under the city guards' very noses. Third Era Redoran were particularly dull and dim-witted– almost as bad as they are now."

Mehra fought the urge to wince and hoped desperately that Councilor Morvayn hadn't heard what Neloth said.

They crossed the dock, Councilors Morvayn and Arano expectantly waiting in front of the ship. The Councilors gave them a nod as they drew closer, and she breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of Councilor Arano's warm smile. Neloth's insult apparently hadn't traveled down the dock.

Gjalund eyed them warily from his position on the deck of the ship, but kept to himself. He was well aware of who Neloth was; she wanted him to be prepared ahead of time for what kind of person he'd be dealing with.

"Master Neloth," Councilor Morvayn said, "it is rare that we see you in town. And Miss–"

"Master Dreloth, to you," Neloth corrected. "Older than you."

Hm. Surname that she never used aside, he remembered that she preferred being referred to as 'Master' rather than 'Mistress'.

Councilor Morvayn pursed his lips and his eyes narrowed slightly. "Of course, Master Neloth; my apologies to Madame. I understand her desire to maintain anonymity. This town will not make war with you, Masters. We wish for a united Morrowind, as do the rest of the Redoran Council."

Neloth nodded mutely, but Mehra could tell that the whole thing bored him terribly.

"We simply came to wish you safe travels," the Councilor explained. "Especially with Skyrim as it is. Azura keep you both, Councilor."

Councilor Morvayn stepped aside to allow them onto the ship.

"It is 'Mage Lord'," Neloth frowned, "or 'Master'. I am more than a mere Councilor."

"Of course; we do much more than attend the Council as well. There is a whole settlement here which needs oversight. I shall let you get on your way, then."

Mehra sucked in a breath as Neloth boarded the ship without looking back. Quickly, she mumbled a hasty 'thank-you' and followed behind, doing her best to ignore both Councilors' pitying looks.

For better or worse, she chose to take this trip with Neloth.

She just hoped that his posturing stopped once they got out of Redoran territory.

 

* * *

 

 

The tower was quiet without the sounds of ambient grumbling and muttered curses. Talvas did his best in the days following Neloth's departure to do chores throughout the tower which he felt to be useful – organize the soul gems, create an list of books that were currently downstairs in case some got lost, sort out the staff room, polish the half-dozen enchanters throughout the tower.

He sighed and trudged across the tower to the alchemy station and shelves. While Neloth was typically organized, this area of Neloth's tower was left a mess before he left – likely intentionally so that Talvas would have to clean it up.

Talvas glanced around the area at bottles and ingredients strewn all around the nearby tables and shelves and frowned.

"I don't have to, really," he mumbled.

The stench of the unwashed alchemist's stand drifted across the room, causing him to sigh again.

"No, I have to," Talvas grumbled. "That'll stink up the whole tower and I'll hear about it."

Determined to get it over with, he disappeared around the corner to grab a pitcher of water and approached the putrid stand. On top of it lay a small, leather satchel of ingredients.

"Couldn't even put this away?" he huffed.

That was quite unlike Neloth. Perhaps, whatever he was brewing was done in haste. Didn't he pack his bags in time, though?

Hm. Come to think of it, he had his bag packed a few days in advance. So this wasn't something done hastily.

Perhaps, it was a secret. But, what could Neloth seriously be hiding as a potion, of all things? Figuring he ought to get his curiosity dealt with, he pried open the bag and peered inside.

Talvas nearly screamed when he saw the ingredients in the satchel and dropped it outright. There were enough lavender flowers, garlic cloves, and wormwood leaves to power a brothel. He knew exactly what Neloth was brewing before he left to go to Skyrim with Mehra.

"Something the matter, Talvas?"

He jumped at the sound of Varona's voice. Gently, he grabbed the satchel of horrors and put it on the shelf as precisely as he possibly could.

"There is nothing to see over here," he announced.

Varona quirked an eyebrow. "You just figured out that they're having sex, didn't you?"

Talvas swallowed and Varona laughed out loud.

"Honestly, Talvas," she chided, "a pretty young thing – Nerevarine aside – comes up to the tower, and suddenly he's giving her 'private lessons'. You didn't suspect anything?"

He shook his head. "I was a bit jealous, to be honest."

Varona's face melted into a look of pity. She stepped forward and wrapped her arm around his shoulder. "Not jealous anymore, I hope?"

"Nope."

"Now, what was he brewing over there?"

Talvas cringed. "Fortify stamina. And by 'fortify stamina', I mean enough to run a lap around the island without being winded."

"That's got to be an exaggeration," Varona laughed.

"It isn't."

The steward cringed and glanced back at the alchemy table. "I saw him pack about four green potions."

"I doubt anyone would drink all of them at once," Talvas said. "Or at least, I hope they wouldn't."

"Poor girl's going to have a hole poked right through her," Varona grumbled.

Talvas slammed his eyes shut, trying desperately to will away the mental image. "Please don't. It's like thinking about my parents – no, my grandparents – having sex."

"Well, would you rather be kicked out of your own bed again, or have them go far away on a vacation to have their little affair?"

"What affair?"

Talvas turned to see Ulves at the top of the levitation portal, a lunch tray in his hands. He didn't like getting into Master Neloth's personal affairs, but he supposed that telling the cook was better than having him find out by accident.

"Well," he sighed, "it appears that something has been going on. Now we can't start spreading this around beyond us here, because this is very delicate information, and if anyone in the House finds out–"

"Neloth's banging the Nerevarine," Varona drawled.

Ulves nearly dropped the tray. Wide-eyed, he scuttled over to the table and placed the tray down where it would be safe. "That pretty girl?" he awed. "You're kidding."

Varona crossed her arms and huffed. "I'm a bit put-out that you're both questioning me on this," she said. "Of course they're having sex, the same as he did with Ildari."

"Oh," the cook grumbled, "that's why Ildari didn't give me the time of day."

"I noticed you had an interest," Varona said, "Regardless, both situations – especially Ildari – would cause a lot of trouble with the House if they were discovered."

"Why have those two beautiful women gone for him, though?" Ulves mused. "Ildari had money and status. Mehra could get anything she wanted, and is powerful as well. I'll tell you one thing; it's not his charming personality."

Varona chuckled and nodded in agreement as they sat down at the table for lunch. While Talvas agreed with what they said, it didn't leave much room for anything else. He swallowed and stared back at the alchemist's stand.

"Do you think it's just about sex?" he mumbled.

"What do you mean?" the cook deadpanned.

Talvas glanced back at the apothecary satchel. The amount of ingredients were a bit ridiculous. Perhaps it was for walking as well.

"I mean, do they really need a reason?" he shrugged. "Maybe it's just something that happens. Not that I'm the type, but, you know, sometimes people just like to blow off a bit of steam."

Varona put her head in her hands and sighed. "Mehra arrives excited and leaves tired and smiling. That tells me more than I ever cared to know about the old man."

She grumbled into her arms without looking up. "Stamina potions."

"Actually," Talvas said, "the stamina potions are a completely new thing."

The cook shook his head and took the lid off the lunch tray. "So the old man's a good lay," he shrugged, "good for him. I suppose when you're that old, you know your way around a woman quite well, with all that practice."

Talvas didn't want to think about that – ever. Shaking his head, he grabbed a portion of saltrice, a slice of herring, and a pile of spinach. The idea of Neloth and Mehra getting along in a friendship capacity was strange enough to him to begin with.

Despite the prospect of having some of the year's first homegrown steamed greens after a long winter, Talvas picked at his lunch. Varona was right; when he thought about it, things added up.

"There were rumors about him in the city," he murmured, "rumors that he kept only female servants, accepted female apprentices more readily, exclusively had women as his mouths. There was even a rumor that he used to kidnap Redoran councilors' daughters for gods-know-what. I didn't believe it then, but now –"

"Oh, let the man get his jollies," Varona scowled. "He's nasty but he's not that kind of nasty and you know it."

"I'm not saying he's nasty," Talvas protested, "just that he's different than I thought. And maybe there was some truth to those rumors. Again – not that I'd ever think him to be capable of doing the unthinkable to a woman."

"Oh, hello Elynea," Varona smiled, "I was hoping you'd join us."

Talvas looked up to watch the scowling woman cross the tower and sit down at the table with a grumbling flop.

"I hope they're being smart," she groused. "I'm a mycologist, not a doctor, dammit!"

"Pardon?"

"I know what he's doing with that girl," Elynea frowned, "the same as he did with Ildari. I refuse to do any medical procedures again; they shall have to find an actual physician."

Talvas stared down at his plate in disinterest. So, Neloth got his previous apprentice pregnant, they presumably had Elynea take care of it, then Ildari died in an experiment later. It couldn't be a coincidence. His appetite disappeared.

"I think I have most of the story," she said. "It's not a good one. I'm leaving it at that."

"Well," Varona mumbled, "you started talking about it, so now you have to finish."

"I certainly will not!" Elynea hissed.

Ulves chewed on his food and pointed a fork in Talvas' direction. "Well, Mr. 'House rules', how about a bit of insight?"

Talvas picked at the pile of spinach on his plate. Speculating over a dead woman's affair with his Master was in very poor taste.

"I agree with Elynea," he sighed. "I didn't know this woman. All I've got now is an urge to make an offering for her spirit."

"That's old history anyway," Varona shrugged. "And besides; Ildari was a cactus of a woman – and she wasn't religious, Talvas. And for the last time: she consented to the experiment. Consented!"

Ulves nodded, making a comment about not speaking ill of the dead while Elynea stared at her meal as if it had committed a grave sin.

Talvas closed his eyes. She consented to the experiment? Either she wasn't informed properly of the procedure, then, or she had enough trust or – something – in Neloth that she'd be fine.

Could it have been that she'd fallen for him somehow? Neloth, of all people?

Dammit, he was speculating.

Shaking his head, he opted to get on with eating as much of his meal as he could, ignoring his lost appetite.

"So," the cook mused, "I wonder who seduced whom in these recent developments?"

"After she gave him the staff," Varona said, "he kicked the lot of us out. So I imagine that he had intentions toward her and did the seducing."

"I didn't think the old man had it in him."

"Quit calling him old," Elynea snapped, "he damn well knows what he's doing. Quit acting as if he's some tottering old fool."

Ulves held his hands up in defense. "I'm well aware of that now," he said. "But how old is he, I wonder?"

Talvas swallowed a bite of food and put his fork down. "He's used the word 'Resdayn' by accident instead of 'Morrowind', so you tell me."

"Hm" he mused, "but, do you think they're – a thing, perhaps?"

No, that was too much.

Talvas pushed his chair back from the table and shook his head. "They're colleagues, Ulves. You're not supposed to have professional-political affairs. I'm going to go practice my summon spell now. I don't want to continue this conversation; I feel it's improper. Sorry."

He went over to the corner and dug through his knapsack to find his face covering.

"I'm done with hiding the messed linens, by the way," Varona said. "Cleaning's your job, Ulves."

Oh, yuck. He didn't even want to know about that one.

"I thought you were supposed to take care of his affairs, though," the cook protested.

She crossed her arms and scowled. "If he wants me to help with something," Varona said, "then he will tell me. I hid it for the benefit of everyone else, as well as his. Now that we all know and we're all adults, that's the end of it for me."

Talvas wrapped the covering around his face, approached the levitation portal, and drifted down to the foyer, leaving the sounds of the bickering servants behind. He desperately needed to go outside to have a think, and suspected he wouldn't be doing much casting.

What if it was somehow true? What if Ildari fell for Neloth, and he used that as advantage to obtain her consent for an incredibly dangerous experiment? Was he doing the same to Mehra, somehow?

Did that kind of thing even cross his mind, though? Neloth often claimed that he'd moved beyond what he called 'petty attachments'.

Talvas narrowed his eyes and stared beyond the tower out toward the sea. Despite Neloth's best efforts, petty attachments were all around him. He had a feeling that Neloth's cavalier attitude about thinking he didn't need anyone would catch up with him eventually.

 

* * *

 

 

Brelyna sat out in the courtyard in front of the College, catching up on her conjuration reading while the weather was still nice. It was one of her weaker schools of magic, but she felt as if she was picking it up rather quickly.

Least of all of her skills was enchanting. She had to work on that one; it was useful, and Telvanni were known to be excellent enchanters. It wouldn't do to be poor at it.

House Telvanni were known to excel at all magic. While she couldn't master everything quickly, it would do her well to be as well-rounded as possible as she searched for a husband.

Brelyna sighed and turned the page of her book. Thinking about these things while trying to study was making it near impossible for her to retain anything. She really needed to –

"Mehra's back."

She looked up from her book to see Onmund in front of her, a dejected look on his face.

"There's a man with her," he mumbled. "They're wearing matching colors. That's a done deal, isn't it?"

Brelyna frowned, marked her place in her book, and shut it. "That white-haired Nord again?" she asked.

"No," he replied. "this is a Dunmer, and his beard is quite dark, from what I can tell. They're coming up the bridge now."

What in Tamriel?

She abandoned her books to rush over to the archway that led to the entrance of the College. As she peered down at the stone bridges that led up to the College, she made out two figures on the lower bridge making their way up.

One was Mehra, with an odd addition to her armor – a brown and gold cape, the design of which she couldn't quite make out. But given the unmistakable dress of the person to Mehra's right – Telvanni robes; Master rank – she was certain that Mehra wore Telvanni colors of some form.

The man next to Mehra was tall and thin, with broad shoulders. He wore his hair tightly-cropped, and had a long, dark beard, just as Onmund said. From his height and rank alone, Brelyna would have remembered him had she seen him in Sadrith Mora before.

"You know this man?" Onmund asked.

Brelyna shook her head. "I don't," she replied. "Shouldn't be surprising, though, given he's a Telvanni Master."

"A-a what?"

As the pair drew closer, the aura of magical power coming from them silenced her altogether.

How hadn't she noticed it before? Mehra's power was incredible – perhaps even more than Master Aren's. And the Telvanni Master next to her was dizzyingly powerful.

"Did the Eye awaken something in Mehra?" Onmund whispered.

She didn't know. Maybe, they were all idiots for not noticing her earlier.

Brelyna remembered to breathe when Mehra gave her a wave from the landing below. The man next to Mehra did no such thing, but she didn't expect pleasantries from a Telvanni Master, even if the newer ones were kinder than the old ones.

He was a classically handsome Dunmer – high, hollow cheek bones; a strong brow; a broad, flat nose; small, creaseless eyes; large lips, and a strong jaw from which grew a long, charcoal beard. And for a Dunmer, he was quite tall.

Aside from his unique wizard robes, he carried a staff on his back, the likes of which appeared to be carved out of dragon bone. And, given the type of work Mehra did – dragon slaying – it was rather easy to figure where he got the staff from.

They stopped in front of her and Mehra gave her a cheerful grin.

"Hey Brelyna," she said. "We're here for supplies, but I'm so glad you're around. This is Master Neloth. Neloth, this is Brelyna Maryon."

Neloth?

It was true?

Quickly, she shook herself and bowed her head. "It is a privilege, great Master," she said. "I am but a mere Mouth; this is a most fortunate meeting."

Thank the gods – she didn't care which ones – that she hadn't written to the Council. She could have accidentally exposed Master Neloth's affair!

"You're a Mouth at age twenty?" Mehra awed.

Brelyna gasped and eyed the cape on Mehra's shoulders.

No, it couldn't be, could it?

"And what's with you wearing Master stuff at age, uh, twenty-whatever?" she asked.

"Do not act casual with a Master Wizard, Mouth," Neloth frowned.

Mehra shook her head. "She's my friend," she said.

"Improper," he grumbled, "but not out of the ordinary for the new you, I suppose. It does become rather difficult to find peers when you're of a certain age. Not many Third Era types around these days; they were lean times when Oblivion opened up."

Brelyna watched as Mehra sighed, closed her eyes, and nodded.

"Brelyna," she said, "we need to have a private talk later."

Brelyna snorted and crossed her arms. "I guess so."

She peered with narrowed eyes at the strange new silken stole tied around Mehra's waist and read the runes stitched into it.

Mage. Protector. General. Warlord. Leader. Unity.

What in Azura's name was this? Those words–

"Mehra! Good to see that you have returned."

She jumped at the sound of Master Aren's voice. Turning, she watched as Mehra stepped forward to introduce her company – the great Master Neloth himself – to Master Aren.

Brelyna and Onmund were all but forgotten in the Arch-Mage's eagerness to usher their esteemed guest into the College. Voices disappeared into the open front door of the College, and with them, the opulent amount of silk and golden-threaded fabric of two Telvanni Masters. Within a minute, the courtyard was silent again.

"That guy is rich," Onmund mumbled.

She snapped out of her stupor and turned to her classmate. "Unsurprising. I wonder, though, if he promoted her to Master rank. Is that even proper? I suppose when you're that ancient, you can do what you want. He's the oldest surviving member of House Telvanni, as far as I know."

"Incredible," he awed. "Well, I guess if they're an item, I'm not even mad. Good job – both of them."

Brelyna laughed. She could definitely agree with that statement.

"You're not upset?" she asked.

Onmund sighed and turned to look at the open door to the College. "Didn't say that," he mumbled. "I'm sad, but that's different. I can't be mad if I never made my feelings known, I guess."

She nodded in agreement.

"Don't let her know about the interest I had, alright?" he said. "I don't want to make things awkward. And I certainly wouldn't want to cross that guy if he got jealous or something."

Brelyna shuddered. "I wouldn't either," she admitted. "He is very powerful. Come to think of it, Mehra always seems so wise when she talks with me. I didn't think anything of it; just thought of her as an older sister or something, but now I wonder. Did she ever mention her age to you?"

"Never."

"It doesn't make sense at all," she frowned. "Master Neloth mentioned something about the Third Era, but I don't really know what he was talking about."

Onmund shrugged and shouldered his bag. "I'm not going to pry into however old she is. But, you're friends with her. I'll see you around, alright?"

"Yeah," she murmured, "I'll see you later."

She frowned as she watched Onmund make his way across the courtyard and into the living quarters. This was strange – stranger than Mehra single-handedly saving the College from Ancano's orb-madness. She was grateful for the opportunity to meet Master Neloth, of course, but the whole thing was strange in how they were so casual with each other. It was strange that Mehra wore a cape that denoted her as a Master when months ago, she was in introduction level classes. Stranger still was the belt she wore and the words embroidered on it.

Was she a high-ranked House Telvanni mole from the mainland, sent to keep an eye on Winterhold? Did the House catch wind of the Eye of Magnus in Saarthal, so they sent someone to investigate?

Oh! That had to be it!

Well, that made a lot of sense. It even explained the Brotherhood ex; since the Morag Tong was no longer in business, the House would have to get their shady business done through alternative means. A connection like that would be useful, though she did question falling for such a person.

Brelyna unintentionally befriended someone very high up in the House. If nothing else, it would get her in her parents' good graces again. And, if she got even a small consideration for marriage, they'd be ecstatic.

After thinking about it for a bit, she put in for her parents to request details on Neloth's apprentice, Talvas. Mehra put her up to it, in a way, and now that she knew the extent of Mehra's connections, it made her immensely grateful that her friend thought so highly of her to suggest such a match in the first place.

Brelyna couldn't wait to get Mehra alone so they could talk about what was going on. She wanted to know exactly who Mehra was. She wanted to ask details about Talvas. She wanted to ask if it would be possible for Mehra to put in a good word so that Neloth could encourage his apprentice to at least consider her. Mehra wouldn't have said anything in the first place had she not thought Talvas worthy of her. Brelyna was certain of this.

That was, if they were still actually friends.

Brelyna sucked in a breath and stared out through the courtyard window and out toward sea where Red Mountain loomed far on the horizon. She found it difficult to believe that all of those heartfelt conversations could be based on lies. For too long, she lived in worry that someone would undermine her work or find some way to stab her in the back when she trusted them.

Was Mehra going to be another one of those people? Was she just another power-obsessed Telvanni mage?

Her heart sank as she gathered her things, put her pack on her back, and shuffled across the courtyard to go to her quarters. There was only one other person in the entire world than Mehra whom she trusted with her secrets, and she was far away in Sadrith Mora.

Scared of the inevitable rejection, Brelyna sat down in a chair next to her bed and attempted to continue her studies. Her stomach turned into knots with each passing second until the anxiety became nearly unbearable. It would be a long time before Mehra had a chance to come back to talk to her; they had to give Neloth a tour of the College, and he'd most certainly want to look at the wide array of enchanting equipment they offered, as well as the vast library.

"Are you alright?"

She looked up from her book to see a concerned Mehra in the doorway and swallowed the knot in her stomach.

"What do you mean?" she replied.

"You look upset," Mehra said. "Did someone say something to you? Ancano?"

Brelyna shook her head and shut her book.

"Nervous?"

She nodded quietly.

"I'll always listen if you need it," Mehra said. "I don't care about rank stuff. I – I'm sorry I wasn't honest with you up front, but I was worried about getting outed. I've lied to too many of the friends I've made and it makes me absolutely sick. I've got to tell you what I can, for now, and probably more later when the time is right. But first, let me know what's going on."

Brelyna gave her a sad smile. "I think the matter will resolve itself just fine. You are always so kind to me."

Always.

She had a good friend in Mehra, and Brelyna didn't even care about whatever Mehra's power and rank meant for her.

"Alright," Mehra smiled. "Well, I'm sure you gathered that I haven't been entirely honest with you. I want to apologize for that first of all. I am a two hundred and thirty three year old Telvanni Master, forgotten to time. While I was off the continent, it appears that chaos took hold, and I intend to put an end to it for the sake of everyone.

Brelyna blinked in shock. Two hundred and thirty three? By Azura, she was remarkably well preserved! And Neloth himself was shockingly youthful for being so ancient. Telvanni ingenuity truly knew no bounds!

"By chaos, do you mean the dragons?" Brelyna frowned.

Mehra nodded, a grave look on her face.

"After what I know you did to save the College," Brelyna said, "I have no doubt that you can figure something out. The Staff of Magnus has chosen you. A dragon thinks he can fly away from a mortal, but we have fire, frost, and shock. And Gods help him when he gets struck by a Telvanni Master, because there will be no mercy for him in this life."

"Ah, refreshing youthful anger and bravado. Oh, how I've missed it."

She turned to see Master Neloth standing in the doorway, his arms crossed in front of his chest. His expression was a strange mixture of boredom and amusement, and she counted her blessings in that she apparently hadn't displeased him.

"I don't know," Neloth grumbled. "How are they versus magic?"

Mehra winced. "I could get better with that. I've, uh, stabbed them to death a few times."

Neloth frowned and jabbed his finger toward the door. "Redoran is in that direction, girl."

"I'm still training," she protested.

"We are always training," he drawled. "Always. If you cease in your studies, you are not a wizard; you're a mere priest."

Mehra crossed her arms. "Well, I heard that Martin Septim was–"

"Expelled from the Mages' Guild in his youth?" Neloth interrupted. "Not that that's any of – my – business what one wants to do with blood magic."

"Turned out to be useful, too," she quipped. "Imagine that."

"As are most things, with the proper application."

"Oh, I know," Mehra smirked. "You're so good at proper application."

Neloth returned her smirk and shifted on his feet. "That is why I am a Master."

Brelyna tugged on the collar of her robe and watched as they stared each other down with narrowed eyes and the same smug smirk.

Was – was it getting hot in there?

She supposed that even Telvanni Masters – old and ancient alike – had the same mortal needs as everyone else. But seeing it – the – the flirting – before her very eyes was the strangest thing she could have ever imagined.

"You are scaring the kid," Neloth drawled.

Mehra rolled her eyes. "I am not," she huffed. "Brelyna knows a lot about me. Including you."

Brelyna backed away and held her hands up in defense as Neloth leveled a glare in her direction. "It was nothing but flattering things, I assure you, Master."

Extremely graphic flattering things, but flattering things nonetheless.

"Good," he groused. "Now, we are best on our way. Watch out for that Thalmor one – he's a bit touched in the head. Don't have to even see him to know it; I heard the story and it was enough. I mean it, Mouth."

"I – yes, Master."

Ancano, insane?

Well, if Master Neloth said it, then it had to be true. From knowing that, Brelyna knew she'd think twice before touching anything that could possibly be dangerous or unknown magic. It wasn't worth losing her mind over, after all.

She watched as they headed toward the stairs, Neloth's gaze lingering on Mehra when she wasn't looking.

Goodness, maybe he really did like her.

 

* * *

 

 

God walked while he slept. He was there – inside the Hall. He was there – outside in the courtyard, waiting to pounce if the Chosen One was about to fail at her task.

God walked while he slept, and eventually, walked away entirely. Ancano missed seeing him in the flesh– both of them. But he felt god's eyes on him, even now. He felt that god watched him, his presence a strange, hair-raising yet comforting force.

Ancano thought – he felt – well, he wasn't sure, really. The night after the incident, he dreamed of a man in black robes, somewhat taller than he, and much larger. Only, the man wasn't really a man; he saw gold-toned hazel eyes with strange, slit pupils underneath that black cloak. But the figure was shrouded in shadow; he never saw much apart from the eerie eyes.

The next night, he saw the same creature dressed in exquisite finery – a pair of white breeches, brown, gold-toed riding boots, a ruffled cream tunic, and a tailored, gold embroidered green and purple vest. He wore a sloppy braid tied off with a green bow, and his clawed fingers were lined with various sparkling rings.

The Supreme Being had the face of one of the Nord barbarians. Clearly, he stood in mockery of the Dominion and of the Eight at large.

Was – was it the one who was meant to be Talos? Dragonborn eyes?

No; it couldn't be. This presence was alarming. Still, more troubling was the question of why he saw it.

Last night, he saw him up close in his dream. God was on the other side of the mirror, pulled him in, and kissed him.

Ancano woke immediately after. It wasn't until some time later that he realized he'd been mumbling to himself in gibberish for an inestimable amount of time after the dream. After taking a few deep breaths and piecing it together, he was only certain of one thing: the kiss wasn't a kiss of passion, and was, perhaps, a symbol of some sort of blessing.

Were these dreams direct contact from this being? Was it a vision because Ancano had experienced something a mortal wasn't meant to experience?

God – no, no; the devil – didn't speak to him, and it irked him terribly. He absolutely knew that speaking to such a being would only bring ruin, but he was different, now.

And he had a feeling that only that being understood him in his entirety. Still, he was not safe. Why – why did Ancano want to talk to this monster?

He – he was a bit addled from the Eye. That had to be it. He just needed some rest and some good meals and a bit more conditioning and he'd be back in prime shape again. If this got back to his superiors, they'd attempt to torture the taint out of him.

And the stain on his mind was much too deep to ever come out.

He drew in a shuddering breath and opened his eyes slowly at the sound of footsteps entering the Arcanaeum. After the incident, it was all he could do to hide from the prying eyes of the students at the College; he purposefully picked a solitary table in one of the library's most dusty corners.

A new voice joined the typical visitors to the library. It was of a higher timbre, an almost withered sound – Ancano didn't have to see the man to know that he was a hawkish sort, and most certainly a Mer of high standing.

Withered voice, but the footsteps accompanying it were soft and measured – not those of a feeble individual. Necromancy likely.

He heard the Arch-Mage's average, clumsy footsteps accompanying the sound of two others – the unmistakable sound of shifting armor, the sound of soft footsteps.

It sounded as if two non-mages accompanied the Arch-Mage, but that didn't seem possible. Ancano knew well from his training that a wizard who was old enough could have lived multiple lives.

When they rounded the corner of the wall of the library, he picked up a wealth of information at the very second he spotted them – an almost overwhelming amount of information.

He saw the Telvanni Master first. It was difficult not to, with his commanding aura, resplendent robes, and posture. The Master Wizard walked with his hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the Arcanaeum – an odd military posture for one of his kind to adopt.

Come to think of it, Mehra – infernal girl – was doing likewise.

She had a new cape in the decoration of House Telvanni, and he realized with a start that he'd been out-spied. While he was busy berating her for her so-called lover on Solstheim, she was actually doing Telvanni Council business! And this man – he didn't even know who this Master Wizard was, but he didn't like the looks of him. He was much too powerful.

Ancano didn't understand. He was an elite agent of the Aldmeri Dominion! House Telvanni was in ruins – utter chaos! Surely he couldn't have been bested by such backward people whom defiled the dead and profaned the Eight with their disgusting Daedric rituals.

Gods above, the woman even had Daedric runes stitched onto the sash tied about her waist. Was heresy so powerful?

He pursed his lips as she approached him with what he assumed to be a pitying smile. As she made her way over to his table, a thought crossed his mind that he wasn't entirely sure was his own:

She was the Messenger; this wasn't her fault.

Yes, yes. He couldn't stay cross with her for defending her College. Oh, what a fool he'd been!

"Have you come to gloat?" he frowned.

She shook her head and, much to his annoyance, pulled a chair out from the table to sit down next to him.

"Wanted to check on you," she replied. "That Eye was bad news, even for someone with good mental strength. I don't think any mortal could handle it. You doing alright?"

His frown deepened. "Why do you care?"

"Because I heard you're getting picked up tomorrow," she shrugged. "And I know how important appearances are. You're probably going to be reassigned to peeling potatoes, eh?"

His face fell. "I will be executed for such a colossal failure."

Mehra scowled and crossed her arms. "Oh, no they won't. How much have you told them? Anything about the Eye?"

Ancano sighed. "I could not get any letters out without great risk, so nothing much since I arrived, and nothing on the Eye. Other than Estormo, nobody knew."

Mehra pursed her lips and nodded. "The Psijics took it."

"Well, yes, they–"

"While you were asleep, even," she said. "How were you to be awake at all times? Impossible."

His jaw dropped. "I – I cannot lie about it!"

"Were you trained to lie?"

Ancano nodded.

"Good!" Mehra chirped. "Then you'll lie to them excellently."

"Why are you helping me?" he frowned. "I've been nothing but dreadful to you this entire time, not to mention the Eye possessing me with power."

"You remind me of me when I was young," she shrugged. "I got a second chance; I'd be a hypocrite to not give someone else a similar turn."

"How old are you?" he asked.

"Two hundred thirty three, I think," Mehra said. "Counting's a bit fuzzy."

So, she was a Telvanni spy. It all made sense, now. Of course, with this area being out of Thalmor jurisdiction, and with Morrowind being an entire province of its own, they couldn't fight a war on two, possibly three fronts.

Besides that, if he did get into trouble, he could use this information as leverage in a bargain for his life. Ancano had a feeling that the Dominion wouldn't be so kind to him.

That was, if he didn't have divine interference on his behalf. What was that? What were those dreams?

He eyed the daedric runes on Mehra's belt and the daedric sword at her side. If these dreams were of Oblivion, then she may know, given she seemed to be head-first into heathenism.

Pursing his lips, Ancano leaned in to her. "You know him, don't you?" he murmured.

She blinked in confusion. "Who?"

He sighed in frustration. He had hoped that she would have understood immediately.

"God," he clarified. "The – the one in the mirror."

Mehra sat back and put her hand on her chin in thought. After a moment, she sat up.

"There are a few of them who use mirrors in their teachings," she replied. "But, I may know of whom you speak. I've had the privilege of speaking to a few Gods. It is awe-inspiring."

"He says nothing to me," Ancano frowned.

She pursed her lips. "Do you really want him to? I heard you call yourself 'god' when we fought. I don't know if you remember that."

Ancano recoiled in horror. He couldn't recall saying such a heinous thing! But surely, being attached to the Eye would have made him think something along those lines.

"I suppose the next time he appears to me in my dreams," he said, "I ought to apologize. That was wholly improper."

"If your instincts tell you that it's appropriate, then definitely do it," she shrugged. "I – I need a bit more to go off of. If you can give me a description, I might be able to give more specific advice."

He closed his eyes. "Three visions," he recalled. "A robed figure in black. I see only his eyes: hazel, with reptilian pupils. In the second vision, he is dressed as a wealthy gentleman: a giant Nord with the same eyes, white hair. He has claws. In the third, he is on the other side of a mirror, and he pulls me in and kisses me – not as an actual kiss; I don't think it meant anything that what a mortal would mean by a kiss."

Ancano opened his eyes to look up at her. The sadness and pity she displayed plain for him to see churned his stomach. What did it mean? A bad omen?

How dare she find him an object of pity! He wasn't some mud-stained orphan or shifty-eyed beggar.

"Apologizing is a good idea," she said. "Don't grovel. Ask for kindness and gentleness on the next part of your life journey, as it may be difficult. You are correct; the kiss is a symbolic gesture of being touched by this particular god – irrevocably. I don't know if that means you are simply claimed, or if you were just 'gifted' in a certain way."

"Are you a mystic, then?" Ancano asked.

"Um, kind of," she lied.

One of the worst lies he'd ever heard, truthfully. So that meant she knew the god who appeared in his dreams, and he wasn't necessarily benevolent.

Ancano nodded quietly. He ought to have paid more attention during his Modern Heresy courses rather than holding so much disdain.

"Try to take some personal time, if they let you do that," she suggested.

He scowled. "I don't need –"

"Ah, remember how old I am?" Mehra smiled. "Take some time to go out into nature and relax. Spend some time meditating; clear your mind of thoughts and just exist for a while. Believe me; it'll do you a lot of good. That Eye artificially loaded you up on a bunch of stuff mortals weren't meant to endure."

Ancano put his head in his hands. "And this is why I have had a visit from a god of questionable motive," he grumbled.

She crossed her arms and sighed deeply. Staring down at her boots, she ground her toe into the tile below in nervousness.

"Well, I'm not going to lie to you about that," Mehra said. "You're correct. I don't see why else you'd get such a visit. Since I doubt you can avoid him, you should be cautious with him."

He nodded quietly.

He was doomed, wasn't he?

"Perhaps, a leave of absence is warranted," Ancano admitted. "But it is doubtful if they will grant me one, and perhaps foolish of me to request such a thing after failing my mission. Surely you must understand this."

"I do," she sighed. "and it's a shame. Obviously, if it's unsafe to request such a thing, protect yourself. None of my connections will be of help to you, unfortunately, though I do offer whatever I can."

Ancano nodded again, unwilling to ask her why she offered such a thing. She was a fool to offer aid to someone who attempted to kill her, and a bigger fool to act as if he hadn't done anything.

She took her leave of him with social pleasantries typical of a commoner – mannerly, but rife with informality and clumsiness. As Ancano watched Mehra leave, he narrowed his eyes.

He couldn't quite figure her out. Her mannerisms gave off an air of a military sort, her speech was that of a commoner, yet her skill set said she was a high-class wizard and fighter. And to top it off, she was a crass as a common bar-whore. Was she still putting on a ruse for him?

That had to be it. He was certain that this woman couldn't be a mere commoner, now that he saw her with this Telvanni Master and knew of her power firsthand. That, and she wore high ranking symbols of House Telvanni. But, since when did Telvanni have spellswords? Was she a Redoran convert?

Well, that was plausible.

Why would she offer her aid? Did she want to get inside his head? Perhaps she waited for the moment to strike- to get him to trust her, and then once his guard was down, take him down once and for all. What if she employed spies?

Ancano closed his eyes, sighed, and shook his head. No, no. She could have killed him already.

Did she regret not doing it? That didn't make sense but –

His mind was muddled. Damn Eye.

He was even making small talk with her.

Yes, he was certainly addled.

Ancano needed to get out of Winterhold and get on with his next assignment so he could put this all behind him.


	35. Chapter 35

A/n: Thank you everyone for your support! This fandom is so friendly. I am feeling quite a bit better, our house has a contract on it, my dad's surgery went well, etc. And we have just found a new house. So, life is still hectic, but things are looking up :)

* * *

 

_"It shames my race that we must be judged by the works of such lack-wit blunderers" -Yagrum Bagarn_   
  


* * *

 

"Mehra, I need you in my quarters for an emergency meeting."

She grunted and stretched in bed, wondering what could possibly be wrong that Master Aren wanted her up in the middle of the night.

"Mehra, please," he whispered. "This dagger – it's dwemer, but it's like nothing I've ever seen. Arniel has disappeared."

Mehra shot up in bed, wide awake at the mention of a strange dwemer dagger. Master Aren stood at the foot of her bed, and behind him stood Masters Irvine and Tolfdir, a grave look on their faces. Silently, Master Aren drew a dagger tucked from his cloak and placed it on the bed in front of her.

"Keening," she breathed.

In the corner, Neloth shifted in his chair, but her gaze was drawn to the piece of her past that went missing so many centuries ago.

It was an odd dagger, even for a Dwemer design. The blade itself appeared to be a clear soul gem of some sort – perhaps even simple quartz – and its surrounding hilt was a strange, mechanical combination of screws, spikes, and Dwemer geometry. At the end of the hilt was a crescent moon shape – likely a sinister callback to the Dwemer blasphemy against creation for which the tool was intended.

Master Aren recoiled in shock. "T-this -this is Keening?"

"Well, yes," Neloth drawled, "she did just say that."

He visibly shook himself and crossed his arms. "I – yes. Of course. Master Neloth, I would appreciate your expert input on this situation as well, if you wouldn't mind. Our student seems to have left behind a strange warped soul gem. Would you mind examining it?"

"Couldn't see why not," he shrugged. "It isn't as if I really sleep."

"My sincere apologies, Master," Master Aren replied. "I wouldn't have asked if it weren't important. You are welcome to stay here as long as you need to become well-rested again."

Mehra chuckled and slid out of the bed. "No," she said, "he quite literally doesn't sleep. At least, not from what I've seen."

He'd been reading by candlelight spell from the moment she turned in for bed, and was in the same position when she awoke.

"Quite a skill," Master Irvine murmured. "We shall meet you in the Arch-Mage's quarters when you're ready; best to not wake the students with further chatter."

With that, they left the room and ascended the stairs, leaving Mehra to stare at the dagger in front of her. Incredible that it just showed up like that. Still incredible was the fact that one of the students at the College managed to track it down and somehow went missing in some kind of experiment. If it had to do with Keening, then it could only be bad news.

To be fair, Keening wasn't the same after the Heart was destroyed; when the Heart broke, so did the enchantment that caused a mortal wound on whomever touched it with their bare hands.

Mehra shook her head and sighed. "Vivec had a gauntlet enchanted so that one could handle this thing," she said. "I'd liken it to, hm – an oven mitt."

Sliding out of bed, she picked the dagger up and put it next to the Blade of Woe. Neloth stood and gave her a strange side-eye, but made no comment about her sleeping with a dagger strapped to her side.

"An oven mitt?" he grumbled.

Mehra slipped into her boots and sat on the bed to tie them.

"To keep Keening from killing people when they touch it," she said. "It doesn't anymore; that stopped once the Heart was gone."

Neloth pursed his lips. "Would be an interesting study, were the dagger not fatal," he mumbled. "Perhaps, the heartstones–"

"Gonna have to call a 'no' on that one for the time being," Mehra sighed. "That sounds unbelievably dangerous, and dammit, I'm too selfish to lose you."

The words slipped out of her mouth before she had a chance to stop them. Smirking, Neloth motioned toward the foyer, and the stairs that led upward to the Arch-Mage's quarters.

"Selfishness is an excellent trait of our House," he murmured. "I suppose you fit in better than most outsiders."

Grateful that he dropped it, Mehra stood with a sigh and led him through the silent student quarters to ascend the stairs. They arrived at the Arch-Mage's quarters to find Masters Aren, Ervine, and Tolfdir standing around a table, staring at a grand soul gem that sat in the center. Each appeared mistrustful of it – if there were such a thing.

Neloth approached the table, his expression unimpressed. "That thing is useless," he frowned.

"There are scorch marks on it," Master Ervine said. "It also has a few nicks in the side."

Mehra frowned. "Nicks?"

She stopped next to Neloth and peered down at the gem. Sure enough, it was chipped, as if someone had beaten on it with –

Mehra swore, drew Keening from her side, and lined it up with one of the deeper grooves on the gem. Sure enough, it fit into the missing part of the soul gem.

The Masters of the College of Winterhold drew a collective breath.

"I have seen apprentices do stupid things," Neloth murmured, "but this is, by far, the most idiotic I have ever seen. Suppose he will be learning Dwemeris wherever he has gone, hm?"

Master Aren put his head in his hands. "One of our brightest students. It's always the smart ones – always too smart and too eager."

"A good kid, too," Tolfdir mumbled. "Such a shame."

Neloth peered down at the warped soul gem on the table. "I shall take that, if you have no use for it. Perhaps it will resonate with the heart stones. I certainly won't be fool enough to strike it with the dagger or other such nonsense."

"Probably a good idea," Master Irvine said. "And I believe that someone here must have helped him in this endeavor. Unfortunately, after this kind of a disappearance, it's any guess as to who it was; I doubt they'll come forward."

Mehra pursed her lips as Neloth grabbed the soul gem from the table. She wouldn't blame Arniel's accomplice for not coming forward, for many reasons.

She stood quietly as they worked out a quick plan as to what to say on the matter. The official announcement from the College would be that Arniel Gane would no longer be attending Winterhold due to a dangerous experiment. There wasn't much more that could be said, apart from that.

With the meeting over, Mehra accompanied Neloth back down the stairs, slowly lagging behind him until he disappeared around the corner. She reached the floor they stayed on and found him waiting for her in the archway just before the foyer.

Strange. Neloth didn't wait for anyone. Or at least, she didn't think he was the type to.

"You were awfully silent through that," he observed.

Mehra shook her head and sighed again. She felt old.

"That was disturbing," she admitted. "It's my fault that–"

"Categorically false."

She threw her hands in the air. "What if this dagger is – I don't know – like the Staff of Magnus? What if it wanted to find me here?"

"That has nothing to do with the kid deciding to experiment with it and soul gems, and you know it," Neloth chided.

Her shoulders slumped. There was nothing she could have done to stop it. "Yeah."

"Go to bed."

Nodding, Mehra shuffled across the foyer and into her room, with Neloth following close behind. These sorts of things happened, but it didn't mean that she was fine with it. In fact, it would be a long time before she accepted Arniel's grim fate. The Augur of Dunlain may have information on the matter, but to what end? A rescue operation was hopeless; Mehra knew it more than anyone.

Doing anything with Kagrenac's tools was a fool's errand.

Without a word, Mehra sat on her bed, tugged her boots off, and burrowed under the covers. She closed her eyes against the soft light of Neloth's spell and the quiet sound of him turning a page every so often. At least she wasn't alone, this time.

The thought brought her some comfort and sent her back to sleep, but the familiar weight of the reclaimed dagger at her side kept her somewhat on edge.

She dreamed she was at a banquet, floating on a blackened void. The atmosphere there was still, as if someone had cast a spell which froze time. It was dark and difficult to make out the guests in the hazy, green lighting in the banquet hall, but as her eyes adjusted to the light, she made out the person on her left:

Erich: mortal, just as she'd remembered him. Even his hair was shorter.

He was frozen in time, the same as the strange green flame on the candle on the table in front of him. Warily, Mehra glanced to her right and saw Neloth.

Nope; also frozen.

She glanced out in the distance of the void and noticed a yellow-green light through a haze of clouds. Slowly, a strange world that looked like it could be hers took form. The banquet was on an icy island in the middle of the sea north of Winterhold. When Mehra glanced around, she saw the familiar landmark of Ysgramor's burial site in the distance, and further back, the College and the ruined town of Winterhold. Everything about it, however, felt off, as if it were all false.

When she looked back at the banquet table, she saw more people: Master Aren, Brelyna, Talvas, Tolfdir, Master Ervine, Aryon, Vivec, Almalexia–

Everyone was dead.

Erich shifted next to her, causing her to jerk in fright. His skin was pallid, and a strange network of black lines branched across his face and neck. Were those his veins? What was that?

Slowly, he turned his gaze toward her – black eyes, dark circles under them. He opened his mouth to speak but began to choke on something.

Mehra watched in horror as it happened to everyone else. Frantic, she tried to move to help them– Erich, Neloth, Brelyna, Talvas : Could she save anyone? – but sat unmoving as a strange paralysis overtook her.

Black blood spilled from their mouths, and the first tentacle emerged from Erich's mouth. The black, slimy thing wriggled toward her as he leaned in to her helpless, paralyzed body. He lifted his hand to the side of her face and stared in curiosity, as if he was seeing her for the first time.

"Fascinating. I'll find you soon enough."

A tentacle wrapped around her ankle.

Mehra screamed.

"Dagon's toenails! What in Oblivion?!"

She sat up in bed, her heart hammering in her chest. Neloth dropped his book, stood, and crouched next to her bed, peering into her eyes and preparing a powerful calm spell in his hand. Quickly, he cast it on her without asking, giving her instant relief from her panic.

"I've never had one like that before," she whispered.

Her voice was hoarse from screaming.

Footsteps padded across the foyer and Brelyna appeared in the doorway.

"Another nightmare?" she asked.

Mehra nodded.

The clock tower above them struck the middle of the hour.

"I'll be alright," Mehra insisted. "You can go back to bed."

Brelyna gave her a look that said she wasn't buying it, but left as she was told. Mehra supposed that had Neloth not been there, it would have been different.

Onmund's voice drifted across the foyer, groggy. "You alright, Mehra?"

"Yeah," she sighed.

Oh, everyone knew. This was embarrassing.

"Need any water?" he asked.

"No, thanks."

She didn't want anyone else to be troubled over her. Sighing, Mehra swung her legs out of bed and stepped into her boots, with Neloth watching her every movement.

"I'm going to take a walk," she mumbled.

He cast a quick glance back to the chair in the corner and the book which he'd been reading for several hours, then looked back to her.

"I shall accompany you, then," he shrugged.

Mehra opened her mouth to tell him that he didn't have to trouble himself, but closed it as she realized that there was no talking him out of it. That, and she couldn't help but admit that this time–

This time, she actually wanted someone with her during one of her post-nightmare walks.

She stood and turned to the doorway. "Let's go before more people show up," Mehra murmured.

Neloth gave her a simple nod in reply, following her out of the room and into the stairwell. Silently, they made their way through the College and out onto the upper walkway that led to the Arcanaeum and Arch-Mage's quarters.

The first breath of fresh air made her feel lighter immediately. Still, Mehra didn't like the idea of being in a place where she could be so easily found. She turned and eyed the bell tower above them, preparing to cast levitate. A hand on her arm stopped her.

"That is a bit excessive," Neloth said. "Need I remind you there is a rather large, loud bell up there?"

Mehra narrowed her eyes at the tower. "Do you know 'muffle'?"

"Excessive," he emphasized. "One cannot physically run from their dreams."

"But I'd feel better," she grumbled.

"Would you? Truly?"

She closed her eyes. Sighing, Mehra slowly shook her head.

No, she wouldn't feel better if she were here or on top of the bell tower. But she was used to people indulging her eccentricities.

Mehra opened her eyes and sat on the wall that lined the walkway. It was the strangest nightmare she had in a long time; in fact, it didn't follow the pattern of any others she had before. Usually, she dreamed of her past life and the things that went wrong in it. Or, she'd dream of Dagoth Ur. At the worst of times, her nightmares were a message sent directly from Dagoth Ur himself, something she didn't care to repeat, given how terrifying they were.

Come to think of it, this dream felt somewhat like the dreams Dagoth Ur sent to her. Mehra wasn't sure if that meant that her mind was getting creative, or if someone was trying to contact her.

"I think it's the dagger," she concluded. "It reminded me of that time, and those nightmares Dagoth Ur liked to send to me. Don't know why my mind decided to come up with tentacles, of all things, but that's the best explanation I have."

Neloth nodded. "A sound reason as any. Is this common?"

She shook her head. "Only when I have something to remind me of what happened in my past life, or when I got involved in the prophecy."

"Then I believe you have your answer," he intoned.

Mehra nodded in agreement, but still, she couldn't get the images of people she knew with blackened eyes out of her mind. And those tentacles were so strange; she never saw with or dealt with those before. They were huge, like those of a fabled sea monster.

"What time is it, by the way?" she asked. "Were you keeping track?"

"I believe you awoke around half-past three," Neloth replied. "You weren't asleep for long."

Devil's hour.

Mehra shook the intrusive thought from her mind. Daedra didn't bother her much, so why would they now?

"I don't think I'm going to be able to get much more sleep," Mehra grumbled. "Might as well sit around and watch the sunrise in a few hours."

"As you wish," Neloth shrugged.

She felt a bit foolish, if she were honest with herself. Pursing her lips, Mehra turned to the door they came from.

"If you want to go back inside to read–"

"I will stay here," he said, quietly mumbling something to himself about 'disturbing shrieks'.

She crossed her arms and hunched over. "I'm sorry to bother you, at least."

"I am merely surprised that I can be bothered in the first place," he admitted.

Mehra laughed. "That makes two of us, I suppose. After some of the stuff I've seen, you'd think a nightmare wouldn't get me like that. At my age, it's embarrassing."

"Agreed on nearly the same principle," Neloth grumbled.

She wasn't quite sure what he meant by that, but found herself too tired to ask. Letting out a deep breath, Mehra slid off the wall and sat down on the walkway to lean back against the wall. She tucked her knees in to her chest, bargaining with herself that she'd close her eyes for just a minute.

"If you wanted a sunrise, you're about to miss it."

Mehra jerked awake and blinked out at the horizon. Sure enough, a pale dot of yellow sunlight shined off the far edge of the water, barely illuminating the landscape. Her body had different plans when she closed her eyes to rest, and thankfully, none of them involved another nightmare.

The silhouette of the massive statue that marked Azura's shrine stood out against the dark mountains, and Mehra pointed in its direction.

"That'll face the sunrise," she said, "and the sunset at her back. Very thoughtful."

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and stretched her sore legs out in front of her. "How long was I out, anyway?"

"Inconsequential," Neloth said.

Mehra eyed the book in his hand. She must have been out for a long time, for the sun to be rising and for him to be reading.

"Did you get some reading done?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No. Aren brought it."

She wasn't sure what to say in reply to that. Mehra hadn't expected him to keep watch over her as she slept, if that was indeed what he did.

She had her doubts. Surely, there were more important things Neloth could be doing.

Unsure of what else to say, Mehra stayed silent as the sun rose over Winterhold and the College began to awaken. She was glad that they'd be leaving that day for Whiterun; between the nightmare and what happened with Arniel, Mehra felt a bit uneasy staying at the College.

And Whiterun always felt right to her, even when she faced some sort of difficulty there.

Eventually, Master Ervine found them outside and asked them if they wanted to have their breakfast there, rather than in the crowded College. They agreed, and as they ate in a companionable silence, Mehra couldn't help but wonder if the same offer would have been extended had she not had Neloth with her.

She still maintained that she wasn't any more important than anyone else, but things were a bit strange, now. After all, she saved the College from destruction, and she was now known to them as a Third Era Telvanni Master. The Companions knew even more about her. And soon, she'd become known throughout Whiterun Hold, and possibly all of Skyrim as a powerful wizard.

It didn't matter if she was ready for it nor not; Mehra figured this was a good thing, even if she made herself uncomfortable for the time being. This was something she had to do for herself.

She turned her gaze down to the town of Winterhold and frowned. A tall person in dark conjurer's robes walked down the bridge that led to the College, their golden skin evident even at a distance. Assuming this was the Thalmor delegate, Mehra stood, stretched, and quickly excused herself by letting Neloth know what she thought was going on.

Her determination to protect the College brought her down to the main foyer quickly. She arrived to see the heads of the College standing at the entrance and talking to none other than Ondolemar, the head of the Justiciars. His snobbery – in particular toward Erich – left quite an impression on her at the Embassy party.

She caught his eye from across the room, and Mehra couldn't help but notice the appreciative once-over he gave her. Figuring she ought to talk to him before he approached her and got Neloth involved, Mehra steeled herself and made her way across the hall to where Ondolemar stood with Masters Ervine and Aren, and Ancano.

Mehra didn't have to turn to see Neloth behind her; she felt him stalking along behind her.

Ondolemar eyed her street clothes with disdain, then turned his gaze back to Neloth.

"I see you're with a different man this time," he drawled.

Ancano visibly bristled next to him. He knew what Mehra was capable of, and knew who Neloth was.

"Oh, sorry," Mehra smiled. "I didn't realize the plus one on the invite to your incredibly boring party meant 'leave your friend at home'."

Ondolemar smirked. "You're a nobody. How did you even get in?"

"You'll hear about me soon enough," she shrugged.

Master Aren stepped forward with a sigh. "She's Telvanni, for starters."

Neloth stopped behind her and shook his head, barely hiding a smirk as Ondolemar sneered at him.

"Last I heard," Ondolemar snorted, "House Telvanni's best exports were what – mucksponge?"

Neloth narrowed his eyes. "Angry, thousands of years old wizards, actually."

"And, you are?"

"Neloth, you insipid brat," he spat. "I've lived through three instances of your Aldmeri Dominion, and this third one is, by far, the most droll."

Ondolemar recoiled as if struck, but quickly composed himself and offered his hand.

"Oh," he smiled, "Master Enchanter Neloth? It is a pleasure."

Neloth glared down at the offered hand and crossed his arms. "You are much too late for pleasantries," he scowled. "Take your underling and go back to the nursery you call an Embassy, child."

Mehra slapped a hand over her mouth in a horrible attempt at holding in her laughter. That was better than any comeback she could have ever come up with, given Neloth's reputation. An insult from her wouldn't mean anything; an insult from a renowned enchanter carried more weight.

Master Aren stepped forward with a sigh. "I believe Winterhold has had enough of the Dominion's hospitality – if it could even be called such. Please, leave, before you further insult our esteemed guest."

Ondolemar inclined his head in a modest show of respect. "Of course, Arch-Mage," he said. "Master Neloth, you have my sincerest apologies; we are used to enemies everywhere, and it is a struggle at times."

"Denied," Neloth scowled. "You know nothing of struggle, boy."

"Also acknowledged," he said. "Your Lordship must know, however: I have seen this woman with another man – a Nord barbarian man."

Mehra fought the urge to wince. She hadn't had an opportunity to talk to Neloth about Erich in detail.

"That is none of your concern," Neloth frowned. "You simply do not know everything as you believe you do."

Ondolemar nodded. "Fair enough, Master."

He gave Master Aren a nod. "Thank you for your hospitality, Master Aren. The Dominion will certainly keep in touch in matters of research. We shall be on our way."

"Safe travels to you both," Master Aren replied.

With that, the two Thalmor turned and left the College through the open door. As soon as they were out of sight, Master Aren visibly deflated.

"Please, don't keep in touch," he mumbled. "Ever."

"What if an accident happened to them on their way back?"

Mehra turned to see Brelyna behind them, glaring in the direction to which Ancano and Ondolemar disappeared.

Master Aren frowned at her and Brelyna put her hands up in defense.

"A little accident," she clarified. "Like – Stormcloaks knowing their identity."

"Always make it look like an accident," Neloth chuckled. "Bright girl, really."

Mehra shook her head. "I think the cosmic scheme will get them in the end; we hardly have to do anything."

"No," Neloth frowned, "the very existence of the vile, cowardly Gothren as Archmagister for centuries proves that there is no cosmic scheme."

"I think we both know what happened to him," she countered.

Neloth laughed. "Not good enough for the likes of him."

Mehra shrugged. She wasn't going to keep arguing the point. Apparently, Neloth had some sort of grudge against Gothren, and she wasn't about to get involved in it when the man was over two hundred years dead.

"You'd know more on that than I would, of course," she admitted.

The clock tower chimed the turn of the hour far above them, and Mehra sighed.

"Time to get going, I suppose," she said. "I'll get my armor on and we'll head out."

Mehra turned and took the stairs upward. Gathering each piece of her armor, she strapped it on then stuffed whatever was out of her bag inside. Mehra stopped at the sight of Azura's Star in her bag – such a wonderful gift – and whispered a quick prayer of thanks as she reached in to brush her fingers across the crystal.

Mehra closed the bag and secured its ties. With her things packed, she shouldered her bag, grabbed the bag Neloth brought, then headed back down to the foyer.

Master Aren stood at the door with Master Ervine and Tolfdir. As Mehra handed Neloth's bag over, Master Aren stepped forward.

"Safe travels to you both," he said. "If there is anything we can do to assist you, you need only but ask."

"And the same to you," Mehra replied. "I'll be back when I can."

After finishing her goodbyes, she headed out of the College with Neloth at her side. As they made their way to the small tavern that they'd rest in overnight, she pondered the possibility of a future teaching destruction classes at the College.

The whole thing seemed so strangely domestic. Mehra wondered if she'd ever have a future like that.

Then again, if she failed against Alduin, she wouldn't have any future, nor would the rest of the world.

A glance over to Neloth steeled her resolve to set things right.

Above all else, she'd die trying to make sure he had a future in this dreadful, wonderful world, along with everyone else she cherished.

* * *

 

As Ancano put more distance between himself and the College, the less loyalty he found to the bawdy woman whom dared to treat him as an inferior.

In fact, he had no loyalty to her whatsoever. He merely defended himself by offering her a conversation so willingly.

From the conversation, however, he gleaned a bit of information about her. Mehra claimed to be an old wizard who made terrible decisions when she was younger. Whether this was the case or not remained to be seen, but her compassion seemed genuine.

That compassion would surely be her downfall. The wizard who accompanied her was certainly a dangerous sort.

Ondolemar was silent as they walked through Winterhold, past the various town guards and odd occasional Stormcloak stationed on the road nearby. When they were out of sight of the ruined city, Ondolemar glanced back to the speck of the College behind them and shook his head.

"Strange to see that woman there as well," he mused. "I imagine there was a favor of some sort done so she could get into Lady Elenwen's party – the Dunmer woman; tall one. I suppose Neloth – if that was truly Neloth – will be having a conversation with her on her infidelity. A man of his standing must save face, after all."

Ancano nodded slowly. He wasn't quite surprised to find that she was sleeping around, but to have the gall to step out on an esteemed wizard was truly something else.

"I overheard her speaking about the man she accompanied, Sir," he said. "That is the one from Solstheim. I certainly believe him to be Neloth, given his known residence. I did not know that Telvanni spying would come so far west, and certainly not in the form of one of Ysgramor's Companions, of all things. But she does wear the cape, Sir."

Lord Ondolemar shook his head. "It is obvious, Justiciar. The woman wears his cape; it was a lascivious and rather overt gift. She certainly is no Telvanni Master."

Ancano wasn't quite convinced. He saw her power firsthand. Still, the cape was rather large, as if it would fit Neloth more properly.

Gods above! That was the famous enchanter, Neloth – or, infamous, depending on how one looked at it. His temper was as legendary as his work, and seeing his superior thrashed by him gave Ancano a terrible case of secondhand embarrassment.

"Of course, Sir," he replied. "A gift makes sense. She is a loose woman, as many Dunmer are. She speaks openly with the young Dunmer at the College about her dalliances – a terrible influence on a young mind."

Ondolemar shook his head. "It is as Dunmer are. Their alchemical makeup is tainted from the Daedra. With the influence of Azura, Mephala, and Boethiah, it is no wonder that they can barely contain such lustful urges. And that is why we do what we do, Ancano; we must ensure that Aldmeri purity remains free of such formidable influence. What happened to the ancient Chimer was no accident and was a direct result of their devil-worship and overt sin. And, the future generations have paid for it dearly."

"That they have, Sir," Ancano nodded. "Were it not for the lower birthrate of Mer-kind, they would surely breed like rats."

Ondolemar turned his gaze to the sky and sighed. "It is unfortunate. But, once we rid them of the overly permissive Empire, we can begin to free them from their heathenism. I am certain this will be the next step in the Dominion's plans."

"Not taking Skyrim, Sir?"

"You've lived here for some years," Ondolemar frowned. "Are they worth taking?"

Ancano pursed his lips. "A conundrum, to be sure. There are relics of the Eight here. And our work, under your leadership, has brought light to a backward people. There is a hierarchy to the creatures of Tamriel – I know this from the evidence I have seen firsthand – but they are all created by great Akatosh and the rest of the Eight. They are beloved by them, even in their simplicity and darkness."

Ondolemar chuckled.

"You are quite idealistic, Ancano," he said. "And true that we must liberate these heathens from their worship of a human. We must also lift the superstitions on magic and bring the light of knowledge to them, whatever parts of it they can retain, that is."

Ancano nodded in agreement. "I suppose there are occasional ones who have above average intelligence. Master Tolfdir of Winterhold is a bit of a tottering fool, but he does have Mastery of Alteration. Against his credit, however, his skills include no conjuration whatsoever."

"Too idealistic and superstitious," Ondolemar laughed. "Of course, Mastery of Alteration is certainly impressive. Your report, however, stated that he is in his low two hundreds in age, correct?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Thus we see Mer superiority," he said. "A great human mage lives as long as a Mer commoner of any race."

Ancano pursed his lips. "The Bretons, however –"

"They are chief among the human races," Ondolemar said. "And it is no wonder; their makeup includes Mer. The Redguards are also an admirable race of humans, for their architecture and immense self-discipline. Imperials are corrupt and arrogant with less talent. And the Nords, of course, are the least of these."

Ondolemar shook his head and scowled. "There was one Nord whom accompanied that loose woman to the Embassy party. A strange man with premature white hair, and height which was more in line with one of our kind. Wore his hair all the way down his back like some sort of dandy – longer than his cloak. The slimy thing must have been trained by her; he was devilishly charming to all of the guests. I presume they disappeared early to paw at each other. Senseless for a pretty young girl to waste time on a short-lived, ignorant, and superstitious kind."

Ancano nearly tripped over his own feet. It couldn't be! She said she had the opportunity to speak with some Gods before, but he never thought that there was such a connection.

She lied to him! She knew the one in the mirror!

"You appear incensed, Ancano."

He shook the thoughts from his mind and sighed.

"That sort of thing is unfortunate," he said. "I may have seen that man before, outside Winterhold with her. What were the color of his eyes, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Hazel – a bit more gold-toned than typical."

Hell and damnation!

"Yes, quite incensed," Ondolemar laughed. "Why so angry?"

Ancano sucked in a breath. "A pity for such a relation to happen. The Nord ought to stick to his own kind."

He turned his gaze toward the gray storm clouds on the horizon.

Gods above! God of the Storm! A thousand apologies! He had to lie to save face.

The storm? What an odd thought.

"And now you look perplexed," Ondolemar observed. "Please, do not tell me that you are so easy to read all the time."

Ancano shook his head. "No, Sir. I am simply a bit weary from all the inter-politics of that College. Of course, I would wager that your person skills are among the highest in the Dominion, thus your ease of reading my expression. A question for you, though: Which God is the God of the Storm?"

Ondolemar narrowed his eyes and stared off at the distant road ahead.

"Sheogorath," he answered. "I am surprised that you do not know this. Thunderstorms belong to him. When heretics summon their heathen Gods on the required day, they are all advised to avoid doing so if there is a thunderstorm on said day. Those who do not heed this are likely to summon Sheogorath. He is one of the most dangerous of the Daedric Princes."

Ancano swallowed. This was trouble.

"Even the false gods of the late Tribunal of Morrowind forbade his worship," Ondolemar continued. "He is on par with Mehrunes Dagon, Molag Bal, and, to a lesser extent, the weaker Malacath. I feel I must remind you: Sheogorath brought the moon to Vivec City and ultimately caused the Red Year. The blood of millions is on his hands. Now, why do you ask?"

"There were many storms recently outside the College," he replied. "I wondered if it had to do with the approaching summer, or if there was something more nefarious afoot."

Ondolemar nodded slowly and seemed to consider this thoroughly. For a brief moment, Ancano wondered if he'd been caught in a falsehood. But, what he said certainly wasn't a falsehood and was, in fact, quite logical.

"Unfortunately, it isn't so simple," Ondolemar concluded. "Sheogorath works in subtleties. He even takes form as a wealthy gentleman with a cane in order to lure mortals into a false sense of security. So, the short answer is thus: there is no telling what those storms mean."

Ancano swallowed. The man in the mirror was certainly Sheogorath, then. Still troubling was the fact that this woman knew him personally and dallied about with him – whether it was unknowingly or willingly, he wasn't quite sure.

Given their conversation, he had the suspicion that she knew exactly what she was doing. This was why she pitied him so.

Sheogorath was a horrible evil. He attempted to contact Ancano through his dreams, perhaps because Ancano had a glimpse at the inner workings of the universe through the Eye. No mortal was meant to do such a thing; it could very well drive someone insane to do so.

But Ancano – Ancano wasn't insane. Though he fell to the temptation of the Eye, he was no ordinary mortal. He had decades of mental training through the most secretive order of the Aldmeri Dominion.

He had to cleanse this taint from his person.

He had to do it all on his own; if the Dominion found out, he'd be tortured – possibly executed.

Terrified for his future, Ancano formed a plan for how he would ward this evil from his mind.

* * *

 

Their journey brought them through a rocky mountain pass toward a small tavern in the middle of nowhere at the southern end of the chain of mountains that surrounded Winterhold. Neloth listened as Mehra insisted for the dozenth time that she knew where they were going.

It sounded as if she was trying to convince herself. Neloth didn't care either way; he knew how to cast dozens of spells that would be useful if their journey took longer than expected.

He sighed as they passed by yet another snowberry bush. The sun began its descent over the horizon some time ago; Mehra voiced her concerns about walking in the dark, to the point of being obsessive. While Neloth did have a reputation for wanting things to be "just so", he knew that travels – especially by foot – weren't an exact science.

Frustrated by the repeated false assurances, Neloth changed the subject.

"The Justicar," he said, "you spoke with him yesterday, I believe. Whatever for?"

She shook her head and trained her eyes on the road. "Just wanted to see if there were any lasting effects of the Eye. Unfortunately for him, there will be."

"How so?"

"Bad omens," she frowned. "Being visited by Sheogorath in his dreams – kissed by Sheogorath, even. He didn't know who the 'God in the mirror' was. Maybe that's for the best."

Unsurprising, really. Anyone fool enough to mess with an ancient artifact of unknown origins was fool enough to not remember the Daedra. And those who forgot themselves around Daedric Princes tended to be reminded in rather excruciating ways.

"He's a poor Inquisitor if he doesn't know the meaning of 'Sheogorath-kissed'," Neloth snorted.

"Do you think he was already crazy from the Eye?" she asked. "Or do you think he was chosen instead?"

"Anyone's guess," Neloth shrugged. "I wouldn't involve myself in that sort of thing, even if you do know the one behind it all."

Pursuing answers of that sort often led down a dangerous path.

Mehra sighed and turned her gaze to the cloudy sky, likely fretting about the setting sun and the appearance of rain on the horizon. If the Justiciar was indeed touched by Sheogorath, then the storm very well may be following him.

"I suppose you're right," she admitted. "It's tough for me not to ask, though. Maybe I'm too permissive with him; I really don't know."

Neloth stayed silent on the matter. That was her business, not his. He hoped, however, that she kept enough wits about her to not equate the human she once knew with the immortal, dangerous being he became.

Just as twilight began to take hold, they caught sight of a thatched roof through a group of tall, dark pines. A trail led down through the jagged mountains across the road from the small inn, which sat adjacent to a small pond. The inn wasn't much to look at, but one couldn't expect much in such a remote location.

Mehra motioned toward the inn and stepped onto the path that led around to the front door.

"Here?" Neloth mused. "It is – common."

"Better than the ground," Mehra quipped.

He shrugged. "Quite. I am certain, however, that I have had either at some point in my lifetime. Details are hazy."

It was always hazy with the older details in his life. While he was used to finery, expensive linens, and private lodgings, there was a time so very long ago in which material luxury was foreign to him.

They took the short stairs up to the tiny tavern, with Neloth motioning for Mehra to proceed in front of him. Her common airs would benefit them in dealing with average people; he was too far removed from such things to be of use.

She opened the door. A gust of warm air that smelled of roasted meat and vegetables billowed outside, inviting them in.

"Ah, it's you again!" a voice called. "Welcome, lass."

Neloth followed her into the tavern and stayed some distance behind. The patrons therein gave him a wary eye; from a second's glance, his station as a wizard was plainly obvious. He occupied himself with taking note of his surroundings as Mehra approached the owner to acquire their lodgings.

There wasn't much of interest, here. It was a log tavern with a worn, pine floor. Still, from the scattered tables about, it appeared to be fastidiously clean. Feeling an ache in his feet – odd sensation – Neloth took a seat at one of the tables nearby and waited for Mehra to conclude her business.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the innkeeper wince and shake his head. "I'm sorry, but it's a single bed. I don't know if your father– "

"He's not my father," Mehra corrected, her voice quiet.

Neloth shoved his hands into the pockets of his cloak, sighed, and stared up at the rafters. He ought to have expected that. If they were humans, they'd appear some twenty or so years apart in age. They would both fool other mer, even.

Willing himself to not eavesdrop further on the conversation, Neloth stared at the wall in front of him and waited until Mehra turned away from the bar at the back of the room. She made her way over to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down next to him with a sigh.

"Everything has been arranged," she said. "It's a single bed, but I know you don't sleep anyway."

Neloth nodded. That was – somewhat correct, at least.

Mehra unstrapped her helm from her head and breathed a contented sigh. The thing looked heavy and warm – excessive, like many things she wore.

The innkeeper brought over two bowls of stew and set them in front of them. Grateful that it wasn't too much different than what he could find on Solstheim – native Morrowind food was a bit hard to come by – Neloth began to eat without complaint.

It tasted wholly average. When one lived thousands of years of life, nearly every meal tasted familiar, unless it was unsatisfactory.

They ate in silence and kept to themselves as an occasional patron entered the inn. As soon as they were finished with eating, Neloth wanted to retire to wherever they had their evening lodgings so as to avoid unnecessary and trivial conversation.

A set of heavy footsteps approaching the table made Neloth purse his lips. Of course, it wasn't to be. He supposed that a wizard in finery was a quite a sight in these parts.

Well, Mehra would deal with it; she had a way with these people.

"Excuse me, sir," a man said.

What? Him? Whatever for?

Neloth drew in a breath and turned to see a Nord male – commoner – standing to his side, an apologetic look on his face.

Well, he supposed the person was polite, at the very least. Neloth motioned for the man to speak, dreading what would happen after giving this one permission to approach him.

"This may come off very forward," the man sighed, "but maybe you'd understand. I'm at a loss. My wife died years ago, and my daughter is old enough where she is going to need to have 'the talk'. Any advice?"

What in Oblivion? Seriously? Again?

He was not traveling with his daughter! In fact, the truth was stranger than fiction, in their case.

Neloth sighed and put his his head in his hands. This was exactly why he didn't bother with leaving his tower. A quick glance over to his traveling companion told him that Mehra fought to hold in her laughter. Shaking his head, Neloth turned to level the man with the stare that left many apprentices and servants scurrying out of the room as quickly as possible.

"All of my children died before they were old enough to know such things," he replied. "The oldest was eight."

Eight? Seven? Something like that. As always, the details from many centuries ago – thousands of years, in this case – were hazy at best.

The Nord's eyes widened in shock. "I am so sorry," he stammered. "I understand loss. Forgive me, sir."

With that, he gave a short bow – not part of Nord culture, but Neloth's status was quite obvious – and scuttled away as quickly as possible.

Mehra stared at the wall and chewed on her lip in thought. Clearly, she didn't know how to process that information, nor did she know what to say in regards to it. But it happened so long ago; truthfully, he hadn't thought of it in hundreds of years.

"I wish people wouldn't assume that I'm your daughter," she mumbled. "It's like they don't get past the skin and eyes. We don't look a thing alike."

"They never do," Neloth groused. "Be glad that you do not have parents either, orphan. Such attachments can be quite inconvenient."

"Avoiding pain?"

Hell, she was sharp.

"It's what animals do, isn't it?" he asked.

Neloth stared down at the floor. Between the nightmare and this, the trip was becoming rather unpleasant. He hoped that once they reached Whiterun, things would turn out better.

Mehra had a private home there, and privacy was exactly what he needed.

* * *

 

Lydia turned another page in her book, shaking her head and muttering under her breath. This reading was strange, but she supposed if her Thane was a – a heathen – then she ought to get to know what that entailed.

It made some sense, why someone would worship one of the Acceptable Blasphemies. But, to worship three of them? Two of which were based off of deceit, malice, traps, and treachery?

Lydia wasn't so sure about that. According to this book, Boethiah and Mephala appeared to play with their worshipers, rather than care for them. She supposed that Azura was decent, but even then, this book told her that she often taught hard lessons to her followers –

Hard lessons like being imprisoned for two hundred years, likely.

Of course, the product of said imprisonment was her Thane, a woman of virtue and strength.

Regardless of the outcome, Lydia did not want to get swept up into this daedric blasphemy. She'd support her Thane, of course, but she would distance herself from any religious ceremonies, objects, and incantations that involved the invocation of daedra. Hopefully, they'd have an agreement over that. Lydia didn't want to cause any trouble.

And hopefully, Mehra's daedric patrons would understand this and not bring trouble upon either of them.

She turned her gaze back down to the book to continue her reading, but paused at the sound of a knock at the front door. A glance out the window revealed that it was dark outside. Lydia wondered who it could be, this late at night. Hopefully, there wasn't trouble in the city; Mehra was gone and wouldn't be back for another two or so days.

Frowning, she marked her place in the book, closed it, stood, and trudged over to the door. As soon as she opened it, her mood brightened.

Aela.

"Oh, hello," Lydia smiled.

"Hey."

The smell of ale drifted across the space between them; Aela had been drinking – heavily.

"Is something the matter?" Lydia asked, noting the woman's red-tinged cheeks.

"Want to go hunting?" Aela said. "Tomorrow. This weekend. Soon. I – I didn't think of a day, actually. Sorry."

Lydia chuckled. "That's quite alright. I would love to. Pardon, but is this exclusive?"

"Just you and me," she replied.

"I'd like it that way," Lydia smiled. "And I'm very flattered you'd ask. My Thane will be back with company soon, and I suspect that they may want the house to themselves. Should I find you at Jorrvaskr when that time arrives?"

Aela nodded. "Yes, perfect."

Lydia noticed that she looked relieved, and found it strange that Aela was so worried.

Oh, was that what the alcohol was for?

Surely not!

Aela bit her lip and looked down at the ground. "Good. I'll see you then, then."

She watched Aela wince at the awkward sentence and nodded politely.

"Will do," Lydia replied. "I can't wait. I hope you have a good night."

"Thanks. You too."

With that, she stepped back into the house and closed the door with a quiet click. Lydia backed against the door, her face flushing.

The Harbinger of the Companions wanted to take her on a – a –

Well, it was something. 'Date' was a strange word to apply to it. Still, Lydia was just a Housecarl, and Aela was –

The most rugged, capable, and beautiful woman she'd ever seen.

Lydia sucked in a breath. She'd have to detail clean her armor.

She turned her gaze to the book she'd been reading, then to the pile of armor neatly stacked in the corner of the room.

Armor first, book second.


	36. Chapter 36

A/n: It's happening.

There's a bit of adult conversation in the second section, but nothing terribly explicit. It follows with this fic's content rating, so I'd just suggest to not read it at work.

* * *

 

_Could be messy. But change is never pretty. - Wulf_

 

* * *

 

The rest of their walk to Whiterun was thankfully – mercifully – uneventful. Neloth didn't bring up any of the awkwardness of Winterhold; nothing about her dream, Keening, her talk with Ancano, nor the awkward altercation with the head of the Justiciars.

Mehra knew she ought to come clean with Neloth and at least tell him that she and Erich were –

She didn't even know what they were trying to do. And, if she were honest with herself, she didn't even know what she was trying to do with Neloth. For his part, Neloth didn't say anything to her about things, so she figured that she might as well keep quiet on the matter. If he wasn't bothered, then she wasn't either.

No; she was bothered a bit. Mehra hated leaving stuff be when it got to a certain point.

She sighed and stared up at the big, wooden city on the hill. They were nearing the point where things bothered her. Her lack of finding an Elder Scroll made her feel restless, and everything else in her life felt similarly urgent. After all, she and the rest of the world could be living on borrowed time.

Mehra sneaked a glance at Neloth as they made their way up the path toward Whiterun. Would she have regrets if she stayed silent?

"Lady Thane! Welcome!"

She jumped in surprise and quickly smiled and waved at the guard who called out to her. Now really wasn't the time to dwell on these sorts of things; she had to make sure that Neloth was welcomed appropriately to her new home.

Mehra looped her arm around his – a bit unnecessary, given the crowd always parted wide for her – and led him up the street to her home. With each step, a new person gave her a small bow and greeted her by her title. Some even went as far as welcoming 'Sir Wizard' to their great city.

When they arrived at Breezehome, Mehra opened the door and quickly ushered Neloth inside. A brief glance around the house revealed that not much changed in her absence, save a lone book on the wicker chair in front of the hearth.

"A decent home for an individual in a crowded city," Neloth mused. "Not appropriate for a Master Wizard, of course."

Mehra watched his gaze land on the overflowing kitchen table that served as her study.

"We share organizational habits," she said.

He chuckled under his breath. "You need at least six more tables."

Mehra laughed and approached the book on the chair. "That I do," she admitted.

She peered down at the book and her heart warmed. It appeared that Lydia was reading about the Three. While she didn't expect her to convert, she was more than happy to find that her Housecarl took her religion seriously and wanted to know more about it.

Turning her gaze away from the book, Mehra held her hand out to Neloth.

"Let me get your bag," she said. "I'll put it upstairs, then we can go to the Jarl. Do you need anything?"

He gave her a perplexed look. "You do not have a Steward for these things?"

"I have a Housecarl," she replied. "They are guards assigned to the Thanes or the Jarl. I travel so much, though, that I told Lydia she shouldn't stay here all the time. I don't care if that's unconventional; I can't have a Housecarl getting stir-crazy."

"But, no Steward."

Mehra shrugged. "I don't have a lot of affairs to manage. I imagine that if I had a Steward, they'd get bored rather quickly."

"Fair enough," he replied. "It is frugal, as well. I have seen young Masters end up in financial trouble from thinking they can live like a King. One must hoard wealth in order to spend it."

He did not hand his bag to her. Instead, Neloth followed her up the stairs to the bedroom, looking around as if the house held secrets.

As they stepped into the bedroom, Mehra found herself grateful that she at least had a double bed. Having sex against the dresser in the tavern the night before, while adventurous, wasn't the most comfortable. Maybe the bed would give them a change of pace.

Mehra swung her bag from her back and placed it in the far corner of the room. She hoped for–

She fought the urge to sigh. Mehra wasn't sure what she hoped for, and there was the problem with the whole thing.

"Interesting," Neloth mumbled.

He dropped his bag next to hers, left the room, and stopped in front of the open-space window that was cut into one of the eaves of he house. Throwing the shutter open, he peered out the window and nodded to himself.

"Got an idea?" Mehra asked.

Neloth nodded again and stroked his beard.

"Could work," he murmured. "Space behind the structure is relatively clear."

He turned to her and crossed his arms. "Are you paying off the person who owns the shack behind you?"

Mehra pursed her lips. "She died. I bought the plot outright."

"Excellent," he said. "That gives us options."

She nodded quietly and peered out the window. Mehra hoped that Olava wouldn't have minded her buying her plot and using it to grow a tower. While she wasn't superstitious, she believed in doing right by people as best she could.

"We ought to go to the Jarl now," Mehra said. "His Steward, Proventius, has helped with finding builders who can carve out the doorways."

Neloth nodded. "Locally sourced, I presume?"

"Yes."

"Then we must instruct them to do their work with prudence," he replied. "Regardless, it is unlikely that anyone outside of Telvanni lands would have a clue as to our unique construction materials. I believe we can forgive their ignorance. Agreed?"

Mehra shook her head and snorted. "Of course. And I believe Proventius will have hired some of the most skilled craftsmen in the hold; I don't think we have too much to worry about."

She motioned for him to follow and began to descend the stairs.

"I will admit that their kind are fair in their craftsmanship," Neloth said. "Detailed and disciplined, unlike the lazy Imperials who merely borrow techniques."

Mehra rolled her eyes. "I'm not going to comment on racial disparity. Folks are folks."

"I certainly wouldn't expect you to," Neloth replied, "given your occupation."

She opened the door, ushered him out to the street, and linked arms with him once again. "Professional ass-saver?" she drawled.

"Crude, but accurate. It is my hope that, in time, you shall become a professional Master Wizard, as is your status."

Mehra nodded in agreement. She longed for the day when she could study more of the mysteries of magic.

But, what was she without a sword? What would she do without the open road at her feet and the wind at her back? Was this the only life she could imagine?

The only other person who experienced such things became a god. Surely Erich didn't think of his past life in the same terms as she did her own.

Mehra supposed she'd find out when the end of her adventure came, if she survived it. Briefly, she wondered what the point was in growing her own tower if it could be destroyed in a matter of months, but quickly squashed the notion.

It was worth it for the sake of the moment, if nothing else.

Together, Mehra and Neloth climbed the stairs that led up to the Cloud District. As soon as the changed Gildergreen came into view, she felt Neloth laughing under his breath.

"Yeah, I know," she mumbled.

"Oh, I know that you know," he chuckled. "I would like to take a moment to inspect this, if you don't mind."

Mehra glanced up at Jorrvaskr to see Aela standing at the top of the stairs, a perplexed look on her face. Figuring she ought to catch up with her, she gave Neloth a nod.

"Sure," she said. "I've got someone to catch up with."

Neloth grunted and waved her off. Mehra shrugged and made her way across the sparsely populated courtyard. When Neloth had a discovery or interest of some sort, he was always short with people; Mehra figured it wasn't so much that he was bothered, so much as that he was very much absorbed in what he was doing.

As she ascended the stairs to Jorrvaskr, Athis stepped out of the building, gave her a warm smile, then startled at the sight of the foreign-looking wizard underneath the Gildergreen.

Mehra stopped at the top of the stairs. Aela stepped forward and drew her in for a quick hug – something she rarely shared with others.

"It has been a while, Sister!" she smiled. "How are you?"

Mehra exhaled and thought of the trouble at Winterhold. "As good as could be expected, I suppose."

"Well met, Sister," Athis said.

"Hello, Brother," she replied.

Aela glanced past her, watching as Neloth circled around the Gildergreen.

"So, who is that?" she asked. "He's carrying your staff."

"Master Wizard Neloth," Mehra replied, "House Telvanni."

"Your teacher? The one helping you build the tower?"

"Yeah," she said. "Well, kind of."

Aela narrowed her eyes and looked at Neloth. "Then why were you hanging off of his arm?"

Mehra chuckled; nothing could get past Aela. "We're – something. Lovers, but not – not actually lovers."

Athis visibly bristled and Mehra shrugged it off. He should have made a move, then. In the beginning, everyone treated her like a child. However, as soon as people knew who she was, they treated her like she was too good for them. Neloth didn't care who she was; she didn't pester him, and this was why their arrangement worked, simple as that.

Aela humphed and crossed her arms. "Does he fight, though?"

Athis bit his lip, failing miserably at holding back a laugh. The idea of a wizard fighting was likely a good joke, to him. But, Mehra knew better.

"I haven't seen him fight," she admitted. "But, I imagine it would be magnificent. I do not know of a more powerful wizard who is still alive."

Athis sobered immediately.

"So," he mumbled, "that's what thousands of years old looks like?"

Mehra nodded. Aela looked less impressed.

"Fascinating," Athis said. "I shall take my leave, then. I hope your tower building adventure goes smoothly, Sister. And I hope your guest enjoys Whiterun."

"Thank you, Athis."

With that, he turned and left for the training yard. They stood in silence for a moment, until Aela tore her gaze from Neloth back to Mehra.

"Be wary of a teacher who will have an affair with a student," she frowned.

Mehra shrugged. "Neloth is one of the few men who could handle me, title and all."

Aela considered this for a moment, then nodded. "Sounds stuffy to me, but even legends need a bit of warmth, I suppose, no matter where it comes from. What about that Erich fellow?"

Mehra sucked in a breath. "That's complicated," she sighed. "I love him dearly, but it's not in a 'marry me and be with me forever' kind of way."

"Insanity?" Aela mumbled.

"Yeah," she sighed. "He's insane."

Aela nodded. "Well, it is no business of mine," she said, "but a bit of advice: be forthright with both. Don't be hurtful."

"Yes, Sister," she replied.

She needed to have a talk with Neloth – about a lot of things. Mehra dreaded the moment.

"Speaking of being forthright," Aela sighed, "I suppose now is the time when I ought to tell you that I have made a pass at your Housecarl."

Mehra raised a brow. "Oh?"

"I – I asked her to go hunting," she mumbled. "Does she like women? Is this a mistake?"

"I don't know," Mehra admitted. "But I can find out for you – uh, subtly, I hope."

Aela nodded. "I want you to know, though, that if she's not interested, I don't want to just throw a fit and say 'forget it'. Friendship is of equal value."

"I understand that completely," she said, casting a glance in Neloth's direction.

He seemed to be done with whatever inspection he wanted of the Gildergreen and waited quietly at the base of the tree.

"I should go," Mehra said. "He doesn't like waiting any more than I do."

"Understood. Good luck, Sister. Trust your instincts."

Mehra nodded. "Thanks."

Aela seemed to have an inkling of her dilemma.

Sighing, Mehra descended the stairs and approached the Gildergreen. What Aela said was true; friendship was important. Whatever she had with Neloth wasn't worth jeopardizing over her doubts. He was the only one she knew who remembered the 'old days' of Morrowind and the threat of the Blight. He encouraged her to not settle for less, even if he was a bit too upfront about it.

Neloth motioned up to the branches of the tree as she stopped in front of him.

"This will have to be a private discussion," he said. "It isn't harmful, but the origins may be."

Mehra pursed her lips. "One could maybe say that it was a whole 'house of trouble'?"

"Maybe just a single corner of one," Neloth chuckled, "but yes."

"Delightful. Knew it."

Frustrated, she motioned up to Dragonsreach. Neloth followed by her side, radiating amusement likely from the predicament of the tree. While he found it fascinating, Mehra found the whole thing excessive.

But that was Erich: excessive to a fault.

Briefly, she thought that maybe, she ought to have settled in Windhelm so he could mess with it, but quickly squashed the thought. Windhelm was a place to pass through – nothing more. Besides; Whiterun was welcoming, and Jarl Balgruuf was a fair and wise leader.

The meeting at Dragonsreach went well. Proventius had a group of workers ready to start on the construction that day, if they were ready. Though he bristled at Neloth not bowing before the Jarl, he quickly changed his tune when Irileth corrected him: one didn't typically bow to someone of the same social standing, after all.

Jarl Balgruuf took the whole thing in stride. A fellow Jarl, a Count of Cyrodiil, a Great House Councilman: all were the same to him, and he was worldly enough to accept it. He expressed an interest in seeing the tower as the construction began, with time permitting, of course.

All the while, Farengar stood off to the side, in silent awe of the Telvanni Wizard and Master Enchanter who graced Dragonsreach with his presence.

Most importantly, Neloth somehow found his decorum at the meeting, which amounted to staying silent a majority of the time.

As they left the keep, Mehra linked arms with Neloth once again. She hoped that things continued to go smoothly; once the workers came down to the site with their tools, the tower construction would begin.

They stopped in front of Breezehome, and Neloth motioned to the house.

"There are two options," he said. "The first involves demolishing this and starting fresh. The second – which I propose you choose – involves growing the tower behind the structure, and using it as an entrance to the tower proper. I presume you remember Aryon's tower, yes?"

Mehra nodded. "I do," she replied. "And I think a hybrid would be a good option. I'll give the house to Lydia so she can have a place of her own."

"It avoids the problem of renting a tavern until the construction is complete," he shrugged. "Now; do you have the soul gems?"

She pursed her lips. "In the house. Let me get them."

Neloth nodded and she dashed inside and up the stairs to retrieve the two gems from her bag. The gems and the souls inside were expensive, but worth it in saving the time collecting them. With the gems secured in her arms, Mehra jogged back down the stairs, pushed the door open with her hip, and closed it behind her with her foot.

"That was quick," Neloth said.

"I can be as quick as I'd like," she smirked.

He laughed. "Oh, I know."

Mehra knelt down and placed the gems on the small strip of grass that lined the front of the house.

"If we've got everything, then I suppose we should–"

"Get a room," a passerby grumbled.

Mehra stood and furrowed her brow in confusion. They were just talking, unless the guy overheard their flirting, she supposed.

She looked up to see Neloth casting a perplexed look over her shoulder. Frowning, she turned around to see the commotion. If it was something enough to make Neloth look, then –

Boethiah's bollocks and breasts. Seriously?

There, in the middle of the bustling street, stood Erich and Sam, sharing a pipe. Quickly, Erich leaned down to give Sam a kiss. Erich wore his usual out of style cape and huntsman gear, while Sam appeared to be dressed for a party in a bar; all black, unlaced tunic top, knee-height boots tucked into his tight black pants, and a short black cape. The pipe they shared dangled from Sam's left hand, and she was quite sure that whatever was in it wasn't legal.

They parted from their kiss and exchanged a heated look before Erich righted himself – had to nearly kneel to reach Sam – and led him forward.

Slowly, they ambled up the street, arm in arm, walking so close to each other that Sam stumbled every few steps from running into Erich. After bumping into Erich one too many times, Sam stopped in his tracks, carelessly spilling ash from his pipe as he removed it from his mouth. They kissed again without a care in the world.

People stopped in their work to stare at the couple passing by; whether it was due to their overt displays of affection, the pipe they shared, or the stark difference in their appearance, Mehra couldn't tell.

If Mehra hadn't known better, she would have seen a couple deeply in love. Instead, she saw it for what it was: two intoxicated Daedra Lords having a tryst.

Eventually, they stumbled their way up to her house, the pair greeting her with devilish smiles.

"Hey Erich," Mehra said. "And hello, Sam. This is a pleasant surprise. Need something?"

That was a dangerous question to ask a Daedric Prince, much less a pair of them known for mischief. Neloth visibly winced next to her.

Sam took a drag on his pipe and exhaled a huge puff of smoke. "Everything," he answered. "Including your souls."

Erich leaned over and gave him a chiding pop on the mouth as if he were disciplining a sassy child. Scowling, Sam batted his arm away, finally giving in when Erich's arm wrapped around his shoulder to hold him. The red-eyed Sam took another puff on his pipe.

"We brought you a housewarming present," Erich said. "Haven't seen you since 'the incident' and figured I'd uh – well, it's not important. Ever built a tower on a Great Welkynd stone?"

Mehra blinked in shock.

"Weren't those all destroyed?" Neloth frowned.

"We have our ways," Erich shrugged.

Sam snuggled into his side and stayed silent, opting to smoke his pipe instead.

"That's an incredible present," Mehra replied. "And don't worry about 'the incident'; no harm was done."

Bless him; was their failed attempt at intimacy why he hadn't said hello in a while? They really needed a private conversation about it.

She shook her head. Now wasn't the time; she had to remember her manners.

Mehra turned to Neloth. "Neloth, this is Erich Heartfire and Sam Guevenne."

Sanguine grinned and giggled from behind his pipe as Erich snorted.

"No," Erich drawled, "my name is Shethro Grath. Seriously though, Sam Guevenne?"

Sam burst out in a fit of wheezing laughter.

Shaking his head, Erich gave Sam a squeeze then turned his gaze to Neloth. "What do you think about the stone? A pair of them?" he asked.

"It should certainly work," Neloth nodded. "Presumably, even better than soul gems, since the stones are pure magical power. Any strings attached to this?"

Sam grinned and nudged Erich. "Yeah, if everyone would take off their–"

"No strings attached," Erich interjected. "The Lady wants a tower, and she'll get one."

"If it weren't a waste of booze, I'd seriously puke," Sam grumbled.

A guard approached them, his brows furrowed behind his helmet. "Now I know a friend of our Thane wouldn't be smoking moonsugar in public, would he?" he asked.

Sam turned his bloodshot eyes toward the guard. "Nah," he shrugged. "This is a plant from Elsweyr, not moonsugar. Helps with my allergies; my eyes are so damn red."

"Oh," the guard mumbled, "my mistake, I suppose. Just please try to be decent, then; no mischief."

"Sure," Sam shrugged, watching as the guard moved on to his post.

When he was out of earshot, he took another drag on the pipe. "Else-w-h-e-r-e," Sam snickered, quite satisfied that he tricked the guard.

Speaking of mischief, Mehra had a burning question to ask of Erich.

"So, Erich," she frowned, "Did you see the Gildergreen?"

He grinned from ear to ear, confirming her suspicions.

"Did you have anything to do with that?" she pressed, already knowing the answer.

"Plants like me," he smiled.

"Erich."

"Alright, so there may have been a bit of amber sap involved –"

"Erich."

He threw his arms in the air and huffed. "It's pretty, alright?" he groused. "Look at those flowers! I don't care if Kyne takes credit for it even. If people say a prayer to her beneath it and I hear it, I'll just gag and move on. The painters out front of it, the children playing beneath it, the women wearing its flowers in their hair, the jewelers making pendants inspired by it – that's what I like. Mania and happiness: that's what I want. So I marked the city a little, alright?"

Sam swayed on his feet and took another puff of his pipe. "Wouldn't be the first time he's marked a mortal settlement. Ever heard of Border Watch?"

Erich cracked a grin. "Ah, yes. I couldn't help but help myself with that one. Goodness, I was so helpful to me, and I didn't even know it at the time."

Sighing, Mehra turned toward the wealthy district. Though she couldn't see the reborn tree from in front of her house, she smelled its flowers on the wind.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Neloth had already backed away.

"I feel fulfilled now, honest," Erich said. "Don't go telling your mom on me or something. She's a needler."

"Damn right on that one," Sam grumbled.

"And besides," Erich continued, "it's not like it's full of dangerous pollen or anything. It's just regular flowers growing where they shouldn't be, but extra smelly. You should get some and put them in your hair."

"Unless you want some roses," Sam said. "How about some red ones? A red rose flower crown to go atop your helm?"

Mehra sighed and shook her head. "If anything, I suppose I ought to be wearing roses. Mother of the Rose, and all that."

"That's right," Sam replied. "I can get you some right now. Bright red, for a lovely –"

"Azura's roses are peach," Erich grumbled.

Sam put his hand behind his back and withdrew a crown of vibrant red roses. Turning to Erich, he narrowed his eyes.

"You wear 'em, then," he frowned.

Erich accepted the crown of roses with a smile. Within a few seconds of him placing the flowers on his head, the workers showed up in front of the house. A man stepped out of the group and gave Erich a nod.

"Thane of Whiterun?" he asked.

Erich grinned. "You'll want to talk to the lady."

The man turned to Mehra and gave her a short bow. "We are here for your construction project, Thane."

"Thank you," she replied. "It'll be a unique job, but I know Proventius would hire nobody but the best."

"Of course, Missy," he said.

He turned once again to Erich. "I presume you're the boss, Sir?"

"I brought a – a magical thing for her to use," he explained. "I don't really know what's going on beyond that."

Sam dissolved into laughter so strong that his legs gave out.

Ignoring the unintentional – maybe intentional – double entendre, Neloth stepped forward.

"I will be overseeing the construction," he frowned. "You will direct all questions to me, and if they need an opinion, I will direct them to her."

She wasn't sure why the foreman didn't bother with her. Maybe he didn't expect a woman for a Thane, but Solitude had one. Perhaps, it was because she was a Dunmer and every Thane she met was a Nord.

Mehra frowned. Unless she asked the guy directly – which was tacky, she supposed – she couldn't know for certain. She dropped the issue and allowed Neloth to lead them back to the site where the ditch digging would begin. As soon as they were gone, Sam rolled his eyes.

"No respect," he snorted. "She's a 'take command' kind of woman. I should know!"

Erich glowered but said nothing. Sighing, Mehra glanced beyond the corner of the house to the group gathered in the back.

"I know you two are keeping up a ruse," she said. "But while there's nobody here, I wanted to thank you so much for your gift. It may be nothing to either of you, but your appearance before us is an honor. I hope I never take it for granted."

Erich shook his head. "Too formal," he chuckled. "You reminded me of my name; I won't forget that. Or, at least, I hope I don't."

"I like social events," Sam shrugged. "But I am glad you understand the importance of a visit; some don't mind themselves."

She motioned to the back of the house, and the three of them walked around the side.

"You are more than welcome to stay as long as you like," Mehra said. "Though we may bore you with the mundane."

When she turned back to look at them, Erich had a large pack slung over his shoulder.

"I could catch up for a few minutes," he said. "We have a party –"

He turned to Sam and winced. "Are we going to be late?"

"Late doesn't exist, where I'm from," Sam shrugged. "She won't mind a few minutes."

He cast a longing glance to the Ebony Blade strapped to Mehra's side, giving her an inkling that they had plans with Mephala. The whole thing seemed a bit strange to her, but she knew that the Daedra had their own lives – Erich included.

They stopped out back of the house. Erich removed the pack from his back and withdrew a pair of stones that shone so brightly with magical power that it was difficult to make out their physical form. They were so lovely that had they not been part of the tower construction, she would have liked to have them to just look at, along with some of her other favorite gemstones.

Neloth stepped forward to take them – how he couldn't stare at them was beyond her – and put them with the other materials. He walked back to where the group stood under the small lean-to behind Breezehome, keeping an eye on the workers as they dug the ditch for the tower's roots.

The group stood in silence for a moment, and Erich sighed and crossed his arms.

"I do have something I need to say, actually," he said.

Perplexed, Mehra turned to him. "What is it?"

"I was watching your fight at Winterhold," he replied. "Train harder."

Mehra deflated at the serious look on his face. Next to her, Neloth bit his lip, looking a bit helpless. What could either of them say in defense of that?

"I'm fairly certain she was trying to save her enemy's life," Sanguine mused.

She nodded in agreement and Erich narrowed his eyes.

"No quarter for enemies," he frowned. "Ever."

Mehra shrugged. She wasn't like that anymore.

"And if they change status?" she asked.

Erich tilted his head to the side in confusion.

"Can't think of a time that ever really happened," he mumbled. "That does change it a little, I guess. But I remember how you used to be. Let's go out in the middle of nowhere sometime, and you cast your best at me. No, better yet; you'll fight me."

Erich narrowed his eyes. "Yes, you'll fight me. I'll wear my black armor."

His 'black armor'? That probably meant trouble, more than anything. She nodded and sighed as he stepped closer to wrap his arm around her shoulder.

"Hey, I'll be good to you," he said. "Promise. I'm not my Da; it's not like I'm going to backhand the teeth out of your mouth or anything."

Mehra sucked in a breath. His self-depreciating humor was ill-timed.

"And," he grinned, "you can't kill me. You could beat up on me for a while before I'd get hurt, right Sam?"

Sam nodded and took another puff of his pipe.

Mehra didn't doubt it in the least. She fought an aspect of Hircine at the time the Bloodmoon prophecy came to pass, not too long after she defeated Dagoth Ur. Theoretically, given that she had to choose between three different aspects of Hircine, Mehra supposed she fought him at one third of his strength.

And that fight was extremely difficult, even with the aid of all her enchanted weapons and armor.

She sighed and shook her head. "Isn't that cheating, though?"

"Cheating?" Erich laughed. "I was born out of cheating! Twice, in fact."

Sam broke out into a fit of wheezing laughter. "I'm not going to tell you how we did it to him," he chuckled. "Last thing we need you knowing is how many of us it takes to hold you – him – down."

Erich narrowed his eyes and Sam shook his head.

"It was dirty business," he admitted. "Jyg – We'll call him 'Jimmy' – had it coming, though."

Apparently, the Jyggalag ordeal was still a bit of a sore spot with the daedra. All Mehra knew was that she ought to stay out of it; Azura and her sisters were involved in his betrayal, and that complicated the matter.

"Speaking of coming," Erich said, "we should probably get going."

Sanguine nodded in agreement. He pushed off from the wall, straightened his shirt, and waited for Erich to say his goodbyes.

"I'll see you around sometime," Erich said. "I'll probably just appear or something; you know how I do it. Good luck with the tower thing."

He leaned over and gave her a quick hug.

"Thank you so much for the stones," Mehra said.

Erich shrugged. Pursing his lips, he turned to Neloth and gave him a strange look.

"Neloth, I want you to think about it, alright?" he said. "I think it'll be good for you."

"Of course," he replied. "I'll – think about it."

Erich gave him a cheeky smile and linked arms with Sam. Together, they walked off down the road. Once they were out of sight, Mehra turned to Neloth.

"Think about what?" she asked.

He shook his head and stared off in the direction they disappeared.

"I have absolutely no clue."

* * *

Around sunset, the work on the tower came to an end. With the ditch complete, Neloth was able to set up the Welkynd stones with spores from his own tower. Now, all they had to do was be patient and wait for the tower to grow, a process which would take an uncertain amount of time. After that, the workers would come back and carve out doorways, then they would grow rooms and pods as necessary.

The most important part of the construction would be the bridge connecting Breezehome to the tower. Mehra insisted on an enclosed structure with windows and heavy insulation; Skyrim wasn't warm in the least, and a traditional Telvanni bridge would leave a lot to be desired during the winter. That, and the last thing she wanted was someone slipping and falling off the edge due to ice.

Mehra sighed and watched the evening crowd flood the streets of Whiterun. The city felt like home, and she couldn't recall a time in her life where she felt such a strong sense of belonging. Out in the crowd, a familiar face stood out; Lydia walked down the street from the Bannered Mare with bundles in her arms. As she drew closer, Mehra stepped forward to take one of the bundles. It was warm, and the scent of roasted meat and potatoes drifted up from the cloth she held in her hands.

Lydia opened the door for them with her free hand, ushering Mehra and Neloth inside.

"I figured the gentleman would appreciate a quiet evening," Lydia said. "Bannered Mare food without the Bannered Mare party; it gets wild on the weekends there."

She looked around for a place to put the cloth bag she carried and settled on the side-table by the hearth.

Neloth nodded and regarded Lydia with a thoughtful look. "You are correct."

"I really appreciate this," Mehra agreed. "I'm too tired to deal with that sort of thing."

"Travel will do that," Lydia shrugged. "Don't worry about the dishes; I'll take them back when it's convenient for you."

Mehra put her bundle next to the other and turned back to Lydia. So, this was what she was doing for the better part of the day. She couldn't imagine that getting something like this on a short notice would be easy, given how busy the tavern was all the time.

"Thank you for doing that," she said. "By the way; when the tower is done, this whole house is yours."

Lydia gasped. "That's – excessive. I don't need – I mean, I'm thankful, very thankful, but–"

"Nah, you get the house," Mehra insisted. "I can't stand the thought of you sleeping in that tiny – well, it's a closet, for starters."

Lydia gave her a sheepish smile. "Ah, it kind of is, yes."

"We'll talk about how to rearrange stuff when the time comes," Mehra said. "Will you come outside with me for a moment?"

"Of course."

Mehra excused them and led Lydia outside the house. As soon as they were outside, her housecarl cleared her throat awkwardly.

"Forgive me, my Thane," Lydia murmured, "but are you seeing him? There's a certain way he looks at you."

"Somewhat? Not officially or anything," she replied.

What was this about a 'look'? He was probably thinking about her ass, if anything. She certainly didn't mind; it felt nice to be thought of as lovely.

"An old friend, then?" Lydia asked.

"He's at least old," Mehra snorted.

Lydia blinked in confusion.

"He's an ancient Telvanni Master," Mehra explained. "I think he has to be at least three thousand years old."

"So," Lydia mused, "Friends with side benefits?"

Mehra pursed her lips in thought. They weren't exactly friends, either, but they were definitely more than colleagues.

"I suppose I'm the closest thing he has to a friend," she concluded. "I imagine that when you live that long, you stop forming close attachments."

"Sounds lonely."

Mehra sighed and looked at the ground.

"It is."

Lydia crossed her arms, as if debating whether or not to continue speaking. Mehra saw a strange look on her face as she her came to a decision after a bit of thought.

"So, three thousand years old," Lydia said. "How does that um, work out?"

Mehra laughed. "It's a lot better than you'd think it would be. In fact, I'd say it works out very well."

"Really?"

"What specifically do you want to know?"

Lydia's face turned red, making Mehra laugh again. Seeing her blushing like that meant that she must have had some very interesting questions.

"It's impolite to ask what my Thane –"

"Nonsense."

Lydia shook her head. Apparently, she didn't trust her voice.

"No, he's not covered in wrinkles," Mehra volunteered. "I knew him back when he had his tower on Vvardenfell at the end of the Third Era. Yes, he was covered in wrinkles back then."

"He's reasonably muscled for someone who isn't a warrior," she continued. And what he lacked with affection, he made up for with his hands.

Lydia stared at the door to the house, as if she could see Neloth through it. "Three thousand years old? That's a lot of practice."

Mehra laughed out loud. There was some truth to that. "Well, he's not tender or anything, but he knows where and how to touch. If I wanted tenderness, I'd –"

She trailed off, unsure of how to finish her sentence. Mehra didn't even know how to complete the thought, if she where honest with herself.

"You would what?" Lydia asked.

Mehra swallowed the lump that was forming in her throat. She couldn't deny it; she did want something more from Neloth, but she had no clue what. "I'd find somewhere else for that."

"Ply him with alcohol," Lydia shrugged. "He'll slow down. It was supposed to be a surprise, but I'll tell you now; there's a bottle of vintage honey liquor in with the food. Let him have that and you'll get exactly what you want."

"Lydia, we haven't kissed once."

Her housecarl knit her brows in confusion. "So, why are you sleeping with this man?"

"It's," she sighed, "it's good."

Mehra pursed her lips and leaned up to whisper in Lydia's ear.

"You find a man who knows what the hell to do with a clitoris," she said, "then dammit, you keep him."

Lydia smiled, her face turning red. "A woman will do that well, too. Differently, of course. Either is fine, though."

"That's probably very true," Mehra laughed.

Gods, they were talking about this in front of her house. Though she was certain that it appeared that they were having a business meeting, she couldn't be too sure.

Mehra wasn't sure that she could use the words 'rough, animal sex', 'amazing hands' and 'intense screaming orgasm' without being overheard. And for the life of her, she never thought she'd ever associate such words with Neloth, of all people.

"You said you were rough, once," Lydia said. "Maybe he thinks he ought to treat you as such. Should be old enough to know that people aren't so simple. Get him a little drunk, then kiss him."

Mehra glanced back at the door. Maybe it would be that easy.

"Anyway," Lydia said, "I know you were having fun, but I think what you said is true. If you find someone who knows what to do with you – in many different ways – then they're worth holding onto."

She sighed. "You've given me something to think about there."

"And I as well," Lydia murmured. "I will need to think of this in the future. Anyway, guess this is the part where you ask me to stay somewhere else tonight, correct?"

Mehra winced. "Yeah, about that –"

"Not a problem," she laughed. "In fact, I am to find Aela. We are going hunting tomorrow."

Her eyebrows shot up.

"If – if that isn't a problem, that is," Lydia mumbled.

Mehra smiled and gave her a pat on the arm. "Not at all. Enjoy yourself as much as you'd like; Aela is a great woman."

"Thank you," she replied. "I believe I will. And take care of yourself; I can only protect you from bodily harm, not other kinds."

"I will. Thank you, Lydia; I can't imagine anyone else as my Housecarl."

She watched Lydia leave for a moment, then turned back to the house with a sigh. How could she blame Neloth for anything if she didn't say what she wanted? It was unfair to him. Mehra knew she was too old to be thinking so foolishly; by now, she ought to have known more about how people worked.

Well, she was in prison by herself for the majority of her life. The only time she had interaction was at meal times and the odd time that they brought her things for a bath or new clothes to replace the rags she wore.

Resolving to be nicer to herself, Mehra turned to the house and opened the door. The smell of the food Lydia brought greeted her, along with the sight of Neloth sitting in a chair by the hearth. He had a fire going already, and briefly, Mehra wondered if he used magic to light it.

He must have; she couldn't think of him using a flint.

"Lydia will be staying at the Bannered Mare tonight." she said. "Let's relax; the house is cleared out and there won't be any interruptions."

Neloth quirked a brow. "Well, if you wanted me to slow down, you ought to have asked."

Mehra closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Apparently, that was all it took with Neloth. So much for her existential angst.

"Then why –"

"You always seemed eager to get down to business," he shrugged. "So, I thought nothing of it. I'm not reading your mind, you know. That is, unless you'd like me to. Might leave you insane, though."

Mehra rolled her eyes. "How about it, then?" she asked. "It's not like we're going to waste time and grow old tonight."

Neloth laughed. "Certainly. It is rare that I am allowed such privacy."

Though somewhat annoyed, Mehra decided to drop the matter. She was used to fighting to get whatever she wanted and it made her a bit anxious to have this so easily. In fact, having her way in this manner still didn't settle the strange feelings she had surrounding her entire situation with Neloth.

Refusing to give into the anxiety, Mehra dragged a nearby stool over to the hearth, and placed it and the food in between the two chairs there. She grabbed a pair of plates and cutlery from a nearby cupboard, handing one set to Neloth. Together, they unwrapped the food and began to eat.

"How big do you think it'll be by morning?" Mehra asked.

Neloth shook his head. "It depends on temperature, soil, moonlight – so many things. I imagine it will be taller than the house, at least."

Mehra took a forkful of meat and nodded. "A week to completion, like usual?"

"I believe so. Conditions are promising."

She liked that idea. Once it was done, she'd have to make a decision on what to do for the Elder Scroll; time was running out. The food on her plate lost its appeal at the thought.

"I've still got to think about how to get that Elder Scroll," Mehra said. "It's constantly on my mind."

Neloth nodded. "I have done what I can, but I do understand your urgency. What thoughts do you have on the matter?"

"I – I don't know," she admitted. "A trip down to Cyrodiil to talk to the Synod and College of Whispers may have to happen – and I'm loathed to do that given the amount of time it would take. Would the House know of anything?"

"I am the main purveyor of ancient and forbidden knowledge," Neloth said. "And I do not say this as a boast; the newer Masters are younger than you. Aryon is the second oldest and he doesn't deal in such things, as you already know."

She nodded quietly. Mehra wasn't sure what else she could do.

"I could ask Erich," she sighed.

Neloth made a noise of disapproval next to her.

"Sheogorath is still Sheogorath," he said. "Don't destroy yourself over this."

"It's the apocalypse," Mehra said. "What choice do I have?"

He shook his head. "There is always a way without taking dire risks. Always. You cannot save the world if something happens to you before you have the chance. So if you want to play the selfless route, then know this: you cannot help others without helping yourself, first."

Mehra nodded in agreement and looked down at her plate. Not wanting him to tell her to eat, Mehra made an effort at making herself do it.

Neloth was correct, of course; he rarely wasn't. She couldn't do a thing to defeat Alduin if she harmed herself before she had the chance to fight him. So, after the tower was complete, she supposed she'd head down to Cyrodiil, dredge up a bunch of memories, and be done with the whole thing.

Mehra finished her plate and put her fork down.

"Thank you for keeping me grounded, Neloth," she said. "You're right about a lot of things."

He shrugged. "It takes many mistakes to be correct so often. Fortunately, none of mine were fatal."

Though his admission surprised her, Mehra kept quiet. Instead, she reached into the bag that held the liquor and pulled the bottle out.

"You drink?" she asked.

Neloth shrugged again. "Not often, but I suppose the circumstances would call for it."

She nodded in agreement and stood to get some glasses. The growth of a new tower was a big deal.

Mehra sat down next to Neloth, handed him a glass, and opened the bottle. The drink inside smelled strong and sweet; she felt compelled to ask Lydia how much it cost in order to reimburse her for it. Mehra poured a glass for Neloth, then one for herself.

"A toast, then," she said, raising her glass.

Neloth raised his glass. "To Tel – what are you calling this thing, anyway?"

Mehra pursed her lips and sat back in her chair. She was so caught up in the planning that she hadn't thought of what to call it.

"Uh," she mumbled, "Tel – um."

She thought of everything around the city: plains, farmland, mountains, the White River...

"Tel Ouada," Mehra said, her voice uncertain.

Neloth appeared to consider this for a moment, then nodded.

"It works," he replied. "To Tel Ouada."

They clinked glasses and took a drink. They toasted more things after: House Telvanni – may it survive forever; Morrowind – never defeated; magic – the study of greatness; enchanting – the greatest of these. They toasted until Neloth had a lazy smile on his face, and Mehra was quite certain she looked the same. It wasn't until they toasted Sadrith Mora and the hope that the city would become even greater than before that Mehra remembered what Brelyna told her about the city.

"Brelyna told me something interesting," Mehra said. "Something about the spirit of Divayth Fyr saving some of Sadrith Mora from the eruption."

Neloth went to pour himself another glass, hesitated, then bypassed the glass altogether by taking a direct gulp from the bottle.

Mehra cleared her throat. "I apologize if that was an inappropriate question. I quite respected him, despite the fact that I squandered the opportunity to get to know him – anyone, really – back then."

He took another gulp then set the bottle down. "Divayth was my patron," he said. "Old enough to have been born Chimer. An incredible wizard and a patient teacher, when he still accepted apprentices. It is always stressed that to consort with the dangerous daedra – especially the likes of the House of Troubles– is to be done with caution. He hadn't spoken with Dagon in a long time, but, Dagon hadn't forgotten the powerful old wizard living in the south of Vvardenfell. I don't have to tell you what exactly happened to him and his house when he refused to aid Dagon."

She nodded quietly.

Neloth stared at the bottle and shook his head. "And Sheogorath – whomever – saw Mehrunes Dagon in person? As a mortal?"

"Erich described him – in his own words – as pants-shittingly terrifying," Mehra replied. "Though the hot gossip among the daedra is a mortal scarred Dagon's face with a massive shock spell, and that said mortal became the next Sheogorath."

"Daedric gossip?" he deadpanned. "Are you serious?"

Mehra nodded.

Neloth rolled his eyes, took another drink from the bottle, then set it down. "Surprisingly mundane," he grumbled. "Anyway, to answer your question: I let the old man have it. I don't want to become 'Saint Neloth' or have statues erected in my honor. I want my peace and quiet and my research and my damned tower."

Mehra stared at him. "Neloth, you– "

"Yes."

"all those people?"

"Yes."

"How?"

He clenched his jaw. "Ward spell at the last second. Used Intervention to transport everyone to the Temple of the One and recalled to my new tower alone where Aryon found me half-dead. He is the only one who knows. I am through talking about it."

Mehra nodded quietly and stared at the fire. She didn't think he would have ever done something so heroic, and if he did, surely he would have wanted praise for it. Neloth was different than she'd imagined. She was glad that she invited him to her home – into her life to help her start over – and glad that she listened to the context of his message when they first met, that she was meant for more than what she had been doing.

And technically, it meant he'd been to the mainland before, but she wasn't about to be so petulant in bringing it up.

"I understand that, a bit," Mehra said. "I don't want a bunch of people knowing I'm Dragonborn. And I especially don't want to be known as 'the person who is trying to stop the apocalypse'. I just want to be me – whatever that is."

Neloth nodded.

"I suppose we'll keep each others secrets," Mehra chuckled.

"A good idea," he replied.

She took another sip of her drink and shook her head. "Honestly, I can't think of any other place where a peasant can make it big other than House Telvanni. The other kids in the orphanage – I'm sure they're long dead by now – would have been surprised to hear what came of the kid who lived in the basement: a Lord in Morrowind. Um, hero stuff aside."

Neloth frowned. "The basement?"

"The nightmares," she sighed. "They thought I must have been possessed or something. They treated me more like a servant than a child to give to new parents; I scrubbed floors until my hands went raw, washed the linens, cleaned the chimneys, cooked the meals – poorly, might I add – and was made to stay out of sight when visitors came."

"Where?"

"Daggerfall. I learned some magic–"

"Those Bretons," Neloth scowled. "Cronies of the Empire, simple-minded, and dismissive of the significant contributions Merkind have made to the world at large – ironically including their gifted heritage that they so love to make comment on."

Mehra shrugged. "They taught me my first spells. I got slapped on the hands whenever I cast wrong, so I learned quickly."

Neloth shook his head in disgust and poured himself another drink. For a brief moment, Mehra wondered if they ought to stop, but they were both getting more candid with each other the more they drank. That alone would be worth the possible headache in the morning.

"You are correct about anyone with enough talent and drive being able to succeed in House Telvanni," he said. "I wasn't always so high status, you know."

"Then how did you get started?"

Neloth sighed and looked at the floor. He obviously didn't want to discuss it. After a moment's hesitation, he shook his head.

"My parents were farmers," he said. "I was conscripted as a teen and learned magic there. After a military career of sorts, I wanted more. So, I joined the House."

The office of Master Wizard, Mage Lord of the Telvanni Council was second only to the Archmagister, and it had been filled for a few thousand years by a man with peasant blood.

Fascinating. She was very much correct on what she said earlier.

"If word of that gets out," Neloth groused, "I will know it came from you. Don't speak of it again; there are dozens in the House who look down on 'mud-bloods' and use being born into the House as a way of asserting some false superiority over others."

Mehra nodded in agreement. She encountered that to some degree, but supposed that it was much worse during the time when Morrowind was closed off to outsiders. But she understood the feeling from how the people at the orphanage looked down on her as some sort of Daedra spawn simply for being Dunmer.

"Our minds make us elite," Mehra said, "not our blood. That is the Telvanni way. You are among the most elite Telvanni to ever exist."

Neloth smirked. "Well, when you're right," he purred, "you're right."

He took another swig from the bottle between them and swallowed. Taking the moment for what it was, Mehra closed the gap between them and pressed her lips to his. The kiss started slowly, then devolved into a storm of passion as Mehra tried desperately to ignore how much it felt like a homecoming rather than another fleeting moment of lust.

The bottle of alcohol lay open and forgotten on the table as they tumbled their way upstairs, kissing so much that it left them breathless. This was different from the other times, and Mehra found herself both excited and scared.

This – whatever it was – wasn't supposed to be like this.


	37. Chapter 37

A/n: The first part here is steamy, but a pg-13 kind of steamy. I'd recommend not skipping it, honestly; it's a big moment.

(Move went ok. We are getting flooring installed, plumbing put in, a fence built, and repainting the entire house. So, uh... it's busy here, to say the least! Also my pc is starting to die :/)

* * *

 

_So that's how it works. You plod along, putting one foot before the other, look up, and suddenly, there you are. Right where you wanted to be all along.  
_

 

* * *

 

He slept like a typical person for the first time in centuries, and when morning came, the dawn of a new day illuminated something he'd been ignoring for some time.

"Did you feel that?" Mehra asked.

She sat up in bed, her hands in her lap, hair thrown over the front of her shoulder. Mehra picked at the strands in nervousness, and Neloth knew exactly what she was thinking.

His gaze trailed down her naked back, over every corprus pock mark and scar. After last night, their arrangement had become inconvenient.

"No," he lied. "I have no clue what you're talking about."

Mehra swallowed, looking somewhat relieved. But he knew exactly what she meant, and didn't like it in the least. Last night crossed a line – a line that reminded him of seven dead wives and fifteen children that never reached adulthood some two thousand five hundred years ago.

He was too old for this woman. He never should have touched her. And she had better things to be doing with her life than entertaining an old man.

"Why do you keep pursuing me?" he asked. "And if you lie and say it's my body, I will leave immediately, return home, and bar you from my tower."

Mehra smiled. "What you just said is exactly why I can't keep away."

Neloth scowled. Of all the trite, ridiculous things she could say, she chose the worst.

"No," Mehra said, "I can tell what you're thinking. I already told you why I've been after you. Everyone treats me as if I am a sacred hero. You don't give a damn who I am or what I've done, and you certainly don't act as if you are unworthy."

He never thought his personality would be a draw, but there it was. The woman actually liked him for his personality. He didn't quite know what to make of her words. It sounded nice – dramatic, but nice, regardless.

"I haven't caught fire yet," he replied, "so I imagine you're not as sacred and special as you think."

"Good. I'm glad. I don't want to be special."

But, she was somewhat special. Neloth wanted to tell her to suck it up. He was still put out from waking up to whatever upsetting change happened between them from the previous night.

She turned to him and smirked. Magnetized, they met in the middle of the bed, kissing and tangling again, trying not to think of what changed between them. Neloth compartmentalized the twinge of 'that' in his mind and threw it in the trash, along with the victims of childbirth, plague, accidents, and assassination that once had names.

Neloth turned her down on the bed facing away from him because he couldn't handle staring her in the eyes again. He saw the rise and fall of countless kingdoms, survived wars and famine innumerable: the Thrassian Plague, the Akaviri invasion, annexing of Morrowind, and all three instances of the Aldmeri Dominion. All of that, and he couldn't look this woman in the eyes anymore.

He was a lonely old man. Did she know this?

Neloth slumped forward over her back and rested his forehead between her shoulder blades. He couldn't do it. The pleasure they shared was fleeting, vain, and meaningless.

"Give it up," he murmured.

Mehra crawled out from underneath him and turned to give him a worried look. Neloth sat back and frowned.

"Stop this foolish dream of pretending to be normal," he said. "The notion that you can go on and pretend to be the same person as centuries go by is preposterous."

Mehra bit her lip, giving him a defiant look.

"Everyone you care for," Neloth continued, "that woman you sent to the inn, the fighters up on that hill, everyone in the College, will die long before you're even aware. You're never going to be ready."

Her chin quivered and it made him angry.

"Detach," he hissed. "Do yourself a favor."

Mehra stared down at the sheets, her hair veiling her face. She sniffled. Was she crying?

"And what about you?" She asked, her voice weak.

"I shall outlive you," he said, "and whatever affection this is which ties me to you."

She lashed out at him, not in anger, but in a flurry of passion. He met her with equal force, furious at her for crawling her way under his skin, and disturbed at the prospect of the disappearance of her bright, new light.

Neloth pushed her back onto the bed, face up. Tears rolled down her face.

"I'm not letting that dictate how I interact with others," she said. "If, in the end, I am hurt, then so be it."

She was a fool, but Neloth knew he couldn't dissuade her. Instead of making the mistake of chastising her, he made the mistake of making love – gods, what a mess – to her again.

He couldn't help but marvel at the thought that they fit so well, even though they were so far removed from each others' history. When they finished, the mood that they awoke to settled over them once again, though not as heavy as it had once been.

"Wow." Mehra stared up at the ceiling and panted.

"You're welcome," Neloth replied. "I expected no less from myself."

At least he had that.

"So, let me ask you again," Mehra said. "Did you feel that?"

Neloth closed his eyes and sighed. She obviously wouldn't let it go. "Yes," he grumbled.

She nodded in agreement. "Me too."

They lay in silence for a while, each too intimidated by the prospect of newness to say anything. Neloth wondered how far she was willing to go, and he wouldn't know if he didn't state his intentions. And he'd be damned if he let her be the first one to speak; Neloth was no coward.

"I suppose that this makes you my mistress, now," he said.

There. It was out in the open.

Hell's bells. He 'thought about it', didn't he?

Mehra took a moment to consider this and nodded. "I believe so, yes. We've had a proper argument and don't seem to despise each other over it."

He nodded in agreement. Anyone fool enough to argue with him in the past two thousand years was thrown out of his keep at best. This woman had the gall to not only argue with him, but also shrug it off as if his wrath wasn't to be avoided.

She was a keeper.

Possibly. Maybe.

"What boundaries do we have?" she asked.

Neloth shrugged. "Do as you please. You have a low likelihood of infecting me, but don't be an idiot with yourself. And if you reconnect with Aryon, I will throw you out on your arse if you lie with him."

"I would never," Mehra cringed, "he was like a father to me."

"I am two thousand years older than he, and I shudder to think what that means."

"You transcend relation," she chuckled, nestling herself into his arms.

Hm. He liked the sound of that. Neloth wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

Mehra turned to look up at him. "If the House found out about us –"

"Damn the house. I don't care."

"Yes, of course," she replied, craning her neck to plant a kiss on his cheek. The kissing had to stop; they were doing too much of that.

"We did aggressively expand into Skyrim – a completely new territory – without House sanction," Mehra said. "I imagine that would gain more attention."

"One would certainly hope."

Gods-knew their affair was blatantly obvious.

"I don't care what you do either," Mehra said. "Just don't flaunt it around me and we'll be fine."

Neloth snorted. He could barely keep up with her appetite as-is. "That won't have to be a concern to you," he said.

This entire damned thing was going to hurt him in the end.

"What about Sheogorath?" he murmured.

He felt her suck in a breath, as if she steeled herself for something.

"I'm quite close to him," Mehra admitted. "Actually, I told him about our affair some time ago. Seems to really like you, and not in a 'keep your soul in a jar' kind of way."

Well, stranger things had happened to him before. He was glad that there wasn't animosity.

"So, you're close," Neloth repeated.

Mehra tensed in his arms. Did she really think he was that unreasonable of a person?

"Stop that," he groused. "Did I not just say 'Do as you please'? I merely asked to make sure that there were no problems on the other end. Good to have Trouble's approval, at any rate. Good being an understatement, of course."

Mehra nodded. "Agreed. I was worried about Sheogorath, for a bit. Erich – well, Erich was a lover. He had arrangements with multiple people at the same time. It was just his way. And I'm glad he didn't lose that part of himself when he changed."

Hm. So, the young god was born as the wrong race in the wrong era.

"I still don't know what he wanted you to think about," she murmured.

Neloth sighed in frustration. "You, perhaps."

"Well, we can't be certain, obviously ," Mehra mused. "But he paid the postage on the first letter I sent you, so maybe you're right."

He closed his eyes and thought of the letter in which she announced one of her many visits. Gold was just a thing to a Daedric Prince, but the symbolism of the act wasn't lost on Neloth. The whole thing was a setup.

"An interesting character, I suppose," he mused.

She drew in a breath next to him. "I have never seen someone more capable of getting people on their side. It's no wonder some people wanted to make him the next Emperor."

"I'm assuming he didn't want that?" Neloth asked.

"No," Mehra said. "He valued his freedom too much. The thing about Erich is he was – is – often right about stuff. I'm a bit worried about what he said about my skills."

Neloth pursed his lips and stared at the bedroom door they'd left open in their haste to tumble upstairs. After a moment, he turned back to her.

"I assume it wasn't meant as a slight," he said. "Same as what I said on our first meeting wasn't a slight. As for the offer of training, your guess is likely better than mine. How do you think you did at Winterhold?"

She closed her eyes, looking visibly pained. "Inadequate. I always feel inadequate. Someday, something's going to trip me up and everyone will realize I'm a big faker and that all my success has been brought on by sheer luck rather than work and skill."

Neloth knew that feeling; he felt it when he was promoted to the rank of Master. Gothren made jest at his peasant blood, and at times, he believed the lie that he was inadequate and cheating the House.

He didn't know what to say; Neloth honestly wasn't good at heartfelt conversation.

"The feeling will pass with time," he said. "For now, do your best."

She nodded quietly. If what he said comforted her, Neloth couldn't say. The moment made him painfully aware that he was entirely out of touch with making niceties and other such things.

Neloth sighed. "Well, now what?"

"Should probably put clothes on sometime today," Mehra shrugged. "Perhaps Farengar will allow us into his study. An enchanting table is on my list of things to get as soon as the tower is complete."

He wasn't keen on having a third party join them – not when they just figured out what was going on between them.

"Do you know telekinesis?" Neloth asked.

Mehra shook her head.

"How about it, then?" he said. "You can grab a book from across the room without having to get up; it's an efficient spell, if anything."

"A spell learned is more knowledge," she replied. "I'd love to learn it."

Glad that he got that out of the way, Neloth slid out of the bed and searched around for his clothes. He had a lot of thinking to do.

* * *

 

Hermaeus Mora was a big proponent of censorship. For thousands of years, he provided Miraak with books and articles on current events on the outside world, but often, phrases and names were redacted.

For example, Miraak had dozens of copies of the Lost Prophecy of Morrowind's incarnate savior, the third line of which was blackened in every single instance he saw it repeated in literature. There was something in that third line of prophecy – something about the Nerevarine – that Hermaeus Mora didn't want Miraak to know. And Miraak couldn't even begin to guess what that was. The amount of things that were censored were so numerous that when Miraak encountered them, he met them with a shrug rather than making note of them as he used to. Taking notes of redactions was the path to madness.

Miraak read journals and histories of all sorts of things; of different warring clans and factions on the world beyond gloomy Apocrypha. Frequently, he devoured the story of Martin Septim over and over again in all of its iterations, looking for differences in each. Now that would have been a Dragonborn to contend with! Not – not that elf woman and her lithe –

Dammit, he was lonely.

It didn't take long before he made another looking glass. He could finally see the world outside Apocrypha, and he intended to keep looking, despite Hermaeus Mora's wishes.

Instead of looking for the last Dragonborn, he felt compelled to find the man she attempted to share a moment of passion with. After all, there had to be something special about a man who could scare a dragonborn – even if she were an untrained, weak one.

Miraak found him walking up a moonlit path to a barrow sitting outside what he believed to be Ivarstead – the town at the base of the Throat of the World where Paarthurnax kept his roost. The man carried a bundle of asters in his hand and stopped in front of the entrance to the barrow. Kneeling down, he placed them on the stone stairs that led up to the mound.

"For you, Ma," he mumbled.

"Mr. Erich, was it?" a woman called.

Miraak turned to see a young Nord woman – peasant, likely a farmer, from her looks – standing on the path.

"It is," Erich replied. He stood and turned to her.

The woman hugged her arms to her body in discomfort.

"Didn't think I'd see you again in our lonely little town," she admitted. "Since you came by a while ago, the barrow's been quiet. Did you get rid of the ghost?"

Erich cracked a wry smile. "Aye."

"I thank you for it, then," she replied. "I um, I've got a question, if you've got a moment."

He stepped down from the barrow, his hair illuminated in the moonlight. Miraak sucked in a breath. There was something off with this man. He didn't like it.

"Sure, Miss?" Erich replied.

"Fastred," the girl replied.

"Ah, that's right," he nodded. "Please, ask, Miss Fastred."

She hugged her arms closer to her body as he approached her, clearly feeling something off of him as well.

"I'm asking because I don't dare ask someone from around here," she admitted. "And maybe it's crazy. I don't know. But, do you think it's possible for someone to be in love with two people at the same time?"

Miraak scowled behind his mask. What kind of asinine question was that? He turned to watch Erich surely scoff at the girl but furrowed his brow when the man's face softened.

"Certainly," he replied. "I – I fall in love hard and fast. And it's never one type of person, except, I suppose, they're all passionate. I'm the same way."

Fastred sighed. "I thought I was the only person in the world like that," she whispered.

"There's plenty out there just like you," Erich said.

"Can you be with them?" Fastred asked. "Are they fine with it?"

"It's a moot point for me," he shrugged. "If I'm not careful, I could hurt someone. I'm insane. Doesn't mean that I don't try when I'm having a good day."

Miraak took a step back. Insane? Or was he trying to hint that he truly was a werewolf? Beastblood could explain the uneasy feeling he gave off. Regardless, this was a very, very strange conversation.

"I – " she mumbled, "I'm very sorry to hear that. You seem like a very nice guy, Erich. I hope you're able to be happy and loved, even with your sickness."

"I'm loved to the point of being practically worshiped," he chuckled. "Don't worry about it. Take care of yourself and the people you love, alright?"

"I will," Fastred smiled. "Do you want some coin to stay at the inn tonight? I've got extra from selling some cabbage. It's dangerous out here; we've got no wall."

Erich grinned. "I'll be fine outside," he said. "I'm crazy and I took care of your barrow ghost, remember?"

"Somehow, I believe you," she sighed. "I'll be on, then. Have a good evening, Mr. Erich."

"And you as well, Miss."

Miraak followed him as he left the barrow behind. They ended up at the charred, broken ruins of what looked like an old farm. Erich knelt down and ran his fingers across a thriving patch of forget-me-nots.

"I loved them all," he whispered. "If I got to know him, I'd probably fall in love with him, too, because I am such a fool."

Erich stood and put his head in his hands. "Why are they all so beautiful? I want to keep them forever." Shaking his head, he kept walking in the moonlight, completely off the path.

Miraak followed at a distance. He found himself believing that it was possible that this man very well could be insane. Certainly, he didn't understand what he was talking about.

After following Erich for what seemed like hours – and very well could have been – they arrived in the southern end of Eastmarch where Skyrim's natural hot springs lay. Miraak watched as Erich seemed to search around for something.

Eventually, Erich stopped in front of one of the natural hot spring pools. After peering at it and shrugging, he stripped off his clothes and tossed them in a pile on the ground.

A shock scar branched across his back and chest in an intricate lattice, the mark of lightning itself. Incredible that the man survived such a thing. Maybe, that was the cause of his supposed insanity. It certainly explained his unique hair color; all of it – from head to toe – was white.

He dipped a toe into the water without checking to see if it was acid or too hot first, confirming to Miraak that the man was indeed nuts.

What a loon. Who did that?

It must have been safe; he stepped in and waded up to his knees before sitting down in the steaming, shallow pool.

"Come on out," Erich said. "I know you've been following me for a while."

Miraak shrank back. No. It wasn't possible! Did he see him?

"I knew I couldn't hide from you," a man chuckled.

Miraak breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn't visible, but paranoia had him thinking that the man knew he was there.

But that just wasn't possible. His power was so vast that nobody short of a god could see him.

A short figure in black robes climbed the hill and stopped in front of the pile of clothes.

"Hello, darling Sam," Erich smiled.

The man threw back his hood and dropped his cloak. He was a Breton with pale skin, dark hair, and dark, sparkling eyes. Even from where he stood, Miraak saw that the man's smile meant mischief.

And he was handsome to a startling degree. What was with these two?

"I had a mind to keep hiding," Sam chuckled.

Erich shrugged. "I don't mind voyeurs," he said. "In fact, I was tempted to start touching myself so you could watch."

Ye gods. If that was going to happen, he'd have to leave.

Eventually.

Before Hermaeus Mora ruined it again.

So, Mehra was with this Erich fellow. But, Erich was with Sam. Did Mehra know about Sam? Or was she also –

What in the living hells was wrong with these people? Did they live in a sex commune?They were probably crawling with diseases; the whole thing was most abnormal. The attractiveness of these people in the hot spring plummeted, the more he thought of it.

He watched as Sam shed his clothes and stepped into the hot spring The pair shared a gentle kiss, with Erich reaching his arms around Sam. Erich broke off the kiss in surprise and turned Sam around to look at his back.

"I've been biting you," he murmured.

Miraak squinted in the dark to see Sam's back riddled with teeth marks, solidifying his suspicion that Erich was indeed a werewolf. Their teeth were sharper than those of a normal mortal, and when they coupled, it was usually violent.

Such a small man to deal with a huge beast. Much to his dismay, his mind conjured obscene imaginings of what it looked like – the violence, blood, and pained moaning.

Come to think of it, this Erich was with the last Dragonborn. Perhaps, he had a size fetish. Perhaps, it was merely the fact that nearly everyone was tiny in comparison. Ten thousand years alone; his mind buzzed with carnal thoughts he hadn't had in half of that time.

"What happens when I do that?" Erich asked.

Sam stretched his back to put the marks on display. "The scraping ones," he explained, "are when you're positioning yourself. Then after you mount me –"

Miraak backed away. This was a bit much. As much as he wanted to listen – and he was loathed to admit such a thing in the first place – if he got caught again...

He'd never hear the end of it.

But soon, he'd be free from Apocrypha. All he had to do was cautiously bide his time and keep his head down while his pawns on Solstheim prepared a way for him to step foot on the mortal plane once again. A bit of carnal knowledge wasn't worth jeopardizing his plan over; he'd have his pick of whomever he desired when he finished his conquest. If it suited him, he'd take even one of these two – maybe even both.

He longed for a pint of mead, a meal of roasted game and potatoes, and the warmth of flesh against his own. None of these were given to him in Apocrypha; Hermaeus Mora sustained him by magic alone.

He'd relish a mere sip of water from a waterskin, even. He had to be patient; the building would take time. Once the building was done, he could come back to the mortal plane and have everything he desired.

Satisfied with his plan, Miraak began to walk away from the scene.

" – been reading a book written in the blood of a priest."

Wait, what?

He paused and glanced back to see Erich sitting with his arm wrapped around Sam's shoulder.

"Anything interesting in there?" Sam asked.

"It's about the fabric of the cosmos," Erich replied. "Things that make you ponder when you read them. I couldn't put it down. Caught myself mumbling in gibberish while reading; it must have been some twelve hours or so. But time is a fickle thing; I'm not certain."

Oh! He was indeed a nutcase. That kind of reading was for fools; they could be driven insane by the blasphemies therein, or even enslaved by the Daedra who kept the knowledge in the book.

Miraak realized, much to his irritation, that he had no room to call anyone foolish for messing around with the profane. If anything, he was the chief of fools.

"Fascinating," Sam mumbled. "Tell me some of these things once we leave. Maybe, we'll go to your place?"

"Anywhere you'd like it," Erich smirked.

These two were an incredibly odd pair. The Dragonborn had to have known of their involvement with the profane. She was an idiot for entertaining notions of Erich; he clearly was a husk of a person, tainted with madness and bloodlust.

He'd have to come back to keep an eye on this. The guy was a bit over two hundred years old, according to Hermaeus Mora, so he imagined that he'd done just enough to avoid being abducted by one of the Daedric Princes.

Or at least, he was decently competent at delaying the inevitable. And one would have to be somewhat insane in order to delay such a fate. Werewolf or vampire seemed most likely, though Miraak couldn't say which, as he hadn't seen one in person before. They tended to keep to their own kind, if they kept any company in the first place.

There was no telling how old Sam was, then, and what he was about.

Wary of the pair of – somethings – in the hot spring, Miraak hurried away from them and traveled through astral form toward Whiterun to check on the Dragonborn. As he drew closer to the city, he stopped in his tracks.

There was a gigantic mushroom tower in the middle of the city which certainly hadn't been there before.

Swearing under his breath, Miraak rushed across the plain surrounding Whiterun and through the city to stop in front of the massive tower, which backed up against the Dragonborn's house. The place looked eerily similar to Neloth's tower on Solstheim. He quickly entered the house, stormed upstairs, and passed through the new doorway on the second floor.

Sure enough, the place at the other end of the sealed walkway was the mushroom tower. As Miraak stepped into the tower and drifted upward, he marveled at how quickly the place came together. He took a look at the Dragonborn's affairs not too long ago – certainly not long enough for such a construction to be created.

Unless, such things were born of magic, and he doubted that she had the skill to do such a thing; at a glance, she seemed simple.

Voices drifted downward as he traveled up the foyer of the tower, both of them familiar. Miraak arrived at the top of the long entryway and swore under his breath at the sight that greeted him.

Neloth was keeping the Dragonborn company. The tower made sense immediately. He wondered how he could have missed that they were connected, but figured it had to have just been bad timing.

He watched in curiosity as the Dragonborn stepped forward to embrace Neloth.

"I'll come by as soon as I know something," she said.

"Of course," Neloth replied. "And, if I find anything, I shall send for you."

Miraak recoiled as he watched them kiss. Did that wizard have any idea what kind of dangerous company she kept?

"I – I think I may have to go to Cyrodiil," she sighed. "I'll ask at the College if they have connections down there; it's the only thing I can think of."

Neloth closed his eyes and nodded. "Anything you need to do, then do it. Don't wait around just so you can entertain a lonely old man."

Miraak shook his head. The harlot was sleeping around; he almost pitied the old fool. Perhaps, he could use this information as leverage of some sort.

He'd have to think of how he'd do it, if he used it at all. Such manipulations were usually beneath him, but he was a desperate man.

"You'll be alright?" she asked.

"It'll be bad for my stomach," he snorted. "But you're an adult and you'll manage fine without me."

"An adult?" she laughed. "That's what they assume, at least. Do we ever know what we're doing, or are we perpetually grasping in the dark for a light?"

Neloth rolled his eyes. "Dramatic."

"Well, I can't legally kill people," she chuckled, "so I might as well kill the mood with seriousness."

Miraak snickered. Well, at least she had the bloodlust of a dragon. He still couldn't help but find her deficient, however.

He backed away from the pair and reluctantly called his soul back to Apocrypha. It slammed back into his body, causing him to gasp and jolt at the two parts reconnecting. In the next moment, he was exhausted.

Miraak lay there for an inestimable amount of time, taking slow breaths behind his heavy mask in an attempt to calm his racing heart.

How interesting that the Dragonborn had connections to Neloth. In fact, it appeared that they were in a relationship of some sort, or at least the pretense of one.

It probably was a pretense, now that he thought of it. She likely wanted money, knowledge, or power from Neloth– or some combination of the three. And Erich was likely a dangerous fling she kept around for pleasure.

Miraak frowned and slowly sat up. He'd take great pleasure in humbling her.

And when he exposed her lies, someone would owe him a big favor – perhaps one that would help him conquer the whole of Tamriel.

* * *

 

They christened the tower in the best way they knew how. But soon the time came for them to be done with their break in routine and Mehra reluctantly watched as Neloth recalled back to his tower on Solstheim. When he was gone, she was alone in the tower and immediately reminded of why she didn't stay too long in Tel Uvirith.

She didn't waste any time and asked Lydia for help in getting some things ready for a trip to Cyrodiil to talk to the mages there. While there was no time to waste in getting going, she knew that preparing for such a trip would take time. There was also the question of a horse. While Mehra wasn't much of a horse person, she'd get there a lot faster with one. She had to think about it.

While Lydia contacted the people necessary to help with getting supplies, Mehra realized she needed something to do. She felt restless from being stuck in the city while the tower grew. Perhaps, there was something she could do while she waited the week or so for the supplies to be prepared.

Checking in with the Companions for work was fruitless; all the jobs they had available were on the other side of the province. Frustrated, Mehra hung her head and shuffled out of Jorrvaskr.

As she descended the long set of stairs, the Blade of Woe caught her attention. The sight of the dagger gave her an idea – one that could, theoretically, get the semi-sentient blade to disown her outright.

There was an illegal assassin coven outside Falkreath. She could take care of that. Briefly, she thought of Erich's words that she may have been used as a purging tool for killing Astrid and shrugged. It really wasn't her concern; if the Night Mother spoke to the new Listener, she certainly hadn't told them to kill her, or else she would have had people hunting her down.

With her mind made up, Mehra traveled back to Breezehome to find Lydia sitting at the kitchen table with a ledger. She looked up as Mehra entered.

"My Thane," Lydia said. "I do not like that look on your face."

Mehra laughed. "Was it that obvious?"

Lydia winced, put the quill down, and shifted in her seat.

"You're a woman of vivid emotions," she replied. "I could tell how you felt about Master Neloth by how you looked at him. And this look you have now – forgive me – looks like mischief."

"I'm about to do something dangerous," Mehra admitted.

Lydia wilted in her seat, looking very distraught. "What is it?"

"I don't want to implicate you if something goes wrong," she said. "But, uh, it should be fine."

"That is not what I wanted to hear!"

Mehra put her hands up and shrugged. "Alright, I'm certain it'll be fine."

That was, it would be fine if they were a den full of fighters like Astrid. If it were a bunch of Erichs, then she'd be dead on the spot, regardless of being a god-slayer.

"Your face doesn't appear confident," Lydia drawled. "Actually, you look like you've got the 'good enough' look on your face. Did all that sex make you reckless?"

Mehra pursed her lips in thought.

"You know what?" she said. "Probably. Still gonna do it."

Lydia sighed and shook her head. "Alright, if you're going to be that stubborn, then let me help you prepare. Is this a political thing?"

Mehra winced. "No, it's more like taking a bunch of bad people out."

"A warrior's blade will always grow restless," Lydia said. "Let's get you geared up; you're always on the right side of a fight, Thane."

She nodded quietly to herself and followed Lydia upstairs and into the tower. Mehra knew this was the right thing to do, even though she delayed in doing it. It was equal to when she refused to play Astrid's death game.

Mehra put her armor on, packed her bag with some food, and left, promising Lydia that she'd stay as safe as she could. Knowing that Lydia would have some choice words on what she was about to do, Mehra didn't tell her where she was going.

She looked down at the worn road leading out of Whiterun and kicked at a pebble. Honestly, she made Lydia's job tough. She didn't tell her what she was doing half of the time, and when she did, it was always some sort of vague explanation.

Mehra supposed it was for the better, just in case the dragons found a way to revive their cult. If there were mortal spies about, she needed to make sure her plans stayed as secret as possible. She didn't see any other way around it. Once things were over with this Alduin business, however, Mehra hoped she wouldn't have to keep so many secrets – providing she survived.

She sighed and looked out at the forest on the horizon. Mehra thought too much about keeping secrets and her likelihood of survival; the whole thing was probably a bit unhealthy. And, if what Lydia said about her expressions were true, then she likely looked constantly burdened to everyone who crossed her path.

As Mehra attempted to look natural as she walked down the road, the sight of someone who looked like a priestess of some sort caught her attention. She was headed toward this person and didn't want to be bothered with questions about her feelings. As she drew closer, however, it seemed that a discussion would be inevitable.

A woman in a plain, brown robe walked toward her, staring Mehra in the eyes. She was short, even for a Breton, but there was something off with her that Mehra couldn't quite place. As the woman reached within arm's length, Mehra saw a glimpse of her face from beneath the deep hood of her robe. The woman's eyes were entirely black, and the sight of them startled Mehra for the briefest of moments.

The woman stopped in front of her and gave her a disturbing, serene smile.

"Young Azura," she said.

Mehra pursed her lips. "Um, I suppose that's me."

The woman's voice was flat and as disturbing as the smile she greeted Mehra with.

"You are," she replied. "I read the words in a book, which told me of your face. The book redacts your name, Young Azura. But I have a message for you."

Mehra nodded quietly. This was clearly something involving some Daedric Prince.

"You have been chosen," the woman said. "The Seeker will find the Master under a hill encased in ice, surrounded by brine."

She had no clue what that meant, but she was certain she'd find out soon enough.

"Thank you for your message," Mehra replied. "And please, thank your Master for me, until I can speak with them. I will go, with reverence."

The woman inclined her head in a modest bow. "Of course, Young Azura. Safe hunting."

"And safe travels to you," she replied.

With that, the cultist woman left. Mehra had no doubt that she knew what she was about to do. Someone – maybe someone new – of the Seventeen had an interest in her. She doubted Sheogorath, Sanguine, or Azura were behind this, and it was likely that this had nothing to do with Mephala.

Thankfully, she had Azura's protection. If someone messed with her too much, Azura would have revenge.

Mehra continued on toward Falkreath. From what she remembered of the map she was shown, the sanctuary was quite close to town. It appeared to be across from an ancient barrow, and it would be on the left side of the road. Mehra passed into the pine woods and kept her eye on her surroundings as the trees grew thicker and darker.

After some time, she saw a moss-covered dome of stones nestled between a group of old, black pines. A glance to her left revealed nothing, but Mehra knew that the location of the sanctuary wouldn't be so obvious. Her landmark was correct; all she had to do was find the place.

The sky opened up in a downpour just as Mehra stepped off of the road.

Undeterred, she searched along the road and found a short path between some large rocks. It seemed to dead-end at a small pond, but she wasn't convinced that was all that was there. Skirting around the pond, Mehra saw another path through the brush that ran parallel to the road.

A red glow against the wet leaves of the underbrush caught her attention. Mehra crept forward and stopped at the sight of a glowing, red door covered in motifs of death underneath an overhang of rock. Encircling the clearing around the rock were patches of nightshade.

Finding the place had been too easy. Perhaps, she was meant to be here.

The rain from above would muffle her entrance. Now was the time.

Mehra stopped a small distance from the door, removed the Ebony Blade from her side, and knelt in the moss. All around her, the forest echoed the sounds of rain and thunder.

"Lady Mephala," she murmured. "Please fortify these hands with your might, and my mind with your all-seeing cunning. I go to destroy the cult of murderers in the place in front of me– who some even dare to invoke your name as their Mother. May this blade, your fang, drink their blood."

Mephala was as silent as ever. With nothing left to do, Mehra stood and approached the glowing door. The black hand and the motif of Sithis – a powerful horror – on the door brought her pause before she steeled herself once again.

Someday, there would be nothing to protect her from danger. Perhaps today was that day. Perhaps, it wasn't. All Mehra knew was that she couldn't live her life in fear of that day.

She put her hand to the door, and cold whisper echoed outward.

"What is the music of life?"

"Silence, my brother," Mehra replied.

The door slid open, and as Mehra stepped inside the dark sanctuary, a woman's chilling voice whispered in her ear:

"I've been waiting for you."


	38. Chapter 38

A/N: So I moved and we have had renovations going on for two months nonstop. Being able to find a quiet place to be alone to write was a challenge. I really, really, REALLY want to get back on a more frequent updating schedule now that everything has settled down some. Thank you, everyone, for hanging in there while you've waited for new chapters. One a month is a bummer for me too!

MORE IMPORTANTLY- ESO Morrowind messed with my canon on Sadrith Mora, Neloth, and House Telvanni. It is what it is. I'm not going to change my story from it; it'll have to exist with some parts as AU-canon. I've had the first section of this chapter written for a year and I'm going to stand by it.

* * *

_In most cultures, Anuiel is honored for his part of the interplay that creates the world, but Sithis is held in highest esteem because he's the one that causes the reaction. Sithis is thus the Original Creator, an entity who intrinsically causes change without design. - The Monomyth_

* * *

1E 2203. Vvardenfell.

The reports to the far west were troublesome. How was he to create this settlement on the frontier of the island without healthy settlers to help create it? After a few months of it spreading, word reached him that they called it the Thrassian Plague, and it was deadly to both man and mer. The uncivilized peoples to the west died by the hundreds from it every day.

Neloth sat on a rock in front of the large bonfire that the new settlers created. By the name alone, he stamped Sadrith Mora as more than a mere tower; the settlement would become a mushroom forest city the likes of which hadn't been seen in thousands of years.

Master Fyr believed him when he said that he was going to do it. His advice: be cautious and ambitious. The project was technically an illegal expansion, but surely, Lord Sotha Sil and his love of House Telvanni would permit the settlement on the eastern end of Vvardenfell, once he saw it flourish.

It was time that the Dunmer took back their ancestral island home, Neloth figured. And who better to lead said expansion than the youngest, most ambitious Lord High Magus, Master-Wizard of House Telvanni, a native to the island of Vvardenfell? Though they would be ordered to keep the population restricted to some small House settlements as was permitted, the Temple restrictions couldn't last forever. Neloth wanted a grand city, period.

The news of the plague threatened to undermine his efforts. Neloth would import Ashlanders to the settlement before he imported those who could be infected.

Already, he had a following of young Telvanni retainers, as well as some adventurous persons from the mainland. There were some tribals, unfortunately, but their knowledge of the wilds would prove useful for those who had no survival experience.

Neloth was the guest of honor at tonight's banquet – a bonfire surrounded by tents on the coast under the stars, where the civilized persons watched in awe and skepticism as the tribals danced and performed their superstitious rites.

He permitted it, of course; there was no sense in chasing off a set of able-bodied workers. In time, the savages would be schooled in reading and writing, and a touch of Temple doctrine to keep the Ordinators out of his way. They were charming in the way that they lay gifts of flowers and fruit at his feet. He had no need for such rubbish, of course, but it was a good sign that they wished to be in his good graces.

The savages danced around the fire, playing drums and laughing as they told stories. Even the retainers, who'd never seen anything quite like it, relaxed and mingled with the tribals.

That was when he saw her.

She danced with a tambourine, her long, silver hair pulled up in a silken scarf. Sweat from the midsummer heat and dancing made her golden face paint run in rivulets down her neck to lie against her collar. The paint on her torso ran down the length of her back and chest, shimmering and radiant in the light of the fire. She wore half a dozen or so strings of flowers around her neck and her wrists and ankles were adorned with dozens of sparkling beads.

She was a pretty, wild thing.

Their gazes met across the fire and she stopped in her dance. Biting her lip, she turned her face away in shyness and tiptoed her way across the party – her long legs looked so strong – to seek out a cluster of females that he supposed were her friends. They spoke quietly among themselves occasionally casting glances his way.

Then, she moved on and joined the party once again, drinking, carousing, and thinking she was sly when she turned to look at him every few minutes.

By the time she worked up the courage to approach him, there was a drunken wobble to her step. Quickly, she knelt before him, removed one of her flower strands, and offered it to him.

"Great Master," she mumbled. Her voice was barely audible above the din of the party.

The woman reached up and placed the strand of flowers around his neck.

"What is your name?" he asked.

She looked up to met his gaze and he was once again struck by her beauty.

"Dalse, my Lord."

Neloth nodded. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, Dalse."

She smiled her shy smile again, mumbling a quiet 'thank you'. For the rest of the night, she kept her place kneeling next to him, casting maddeningly beautiful glances up at him from time to time.

Before the night was over, Neloth made up his mind:

He wanted Dalse as his wife. Neloth always got what he wanted.

* * *

4E 201. Solstheim.

He was in a foul mood already. If a private getaway with a young lady didn't help Neloth, then Varona was quite certain that nothing would.

Neloth was certain that someone – maybe everyone – at the tower had something to do with the letter. If not directly, they indirectly invited such an annoying inconvenience upon him.

Nothing could be further from the truth, but Varona knew she couldn't change his mind on the matter.

Neloth reread the letter, his scowl increasing. It seemed that the Archmagister wanted to visit. And, by 'visit', the letter stated that as of the time of the letter, he was already on his way to Tel Mithryn.

Varona hadn't the faintest idea as to what ought to be done to accommodate such an esteemed person. Given Neloth's thoughts on the matter, she knew he wouldn't help in the least. In fact, she wouldn't have put it past him to hope that the Archmagister's stay was so unpleasant that he wouldn't return.

Varona took pride in her work. She wasn't about to let that happen. If this Aryon fellow were any bit like Neloth, then she knew she had quite a task cut out for her. Perhaps, Talvas could advise on the matter. Impressing the Archmagister would be helpful for a young wizard. She'd even give him half – no; a quarter – of the credit.

For now, however, there was the ledger to attend to. She couldn't organize expenses for a visit without knowing where they stood on a monthly basis.

Neloth was that cheap. They all lived off of peasant food and used cheaply made items due to his penchant for hoarding everything he could.

To be fair, Varona didn't think that the fatty meats dripping in oil that the nobles ate were necessarily healthy. But it couldn't kill the man to allow her to purchase nicer linens. Varona had quite a few patches on her own bed linens, and even the guest linens had a patch or two.

She eyed the ledger with narrowed eyes. It was horrendous enough that the Nerevarine herself slept with patchy, threadbare bed linens when she visited. She'd be damned if the Archmagister did likewise.

She had to do something. Perhaps, the Skaal village to the north would have some luxurious furs that she could purchase at a discount. They would provide a touch of luxury, and keep the Archmagister warm when he visited. He lived in the warm regions of Morrowind and Solstheim would be quite the shock, even in the summer.

Varona figured it was a simple matter of budgeting. She refused to let herself be embarrassed just because Neloth only cared about himself. Satisfied with her plan, she hunched over the ledger and began to look at where she could possibly cut some funds from.

As Varona began to total sums, Talvas shuffled back and forth from the enchanting room to find various things which Neloth requested. She ignored them, even as Neloth grew tired of Talvas not finding the correct items and left the enchanting room himself.

Neloth grumbled under his breath as he tore apart a nearby cupboard – to Varona's dismay – in search of something. Sparing a glance up at the pair of wizards, Varona saw Talvas fidgeting behind Neloth. The look was familiar; Talvas had a question to ask of Neloth – likely one that would cause shouting or a likewise angered response.

Knowing what was about to come, she minded her own business and looked down at the ledger once again.

"Master," Talvas said, "I heard something – and I am not assuming it is true – about you keeping Redoran Councilor daughters in your cellar some time ago."

And, there it was. Varona pursed her lips. She didn't doubt the old man did that for a second. He wasn't a horrid man, but he certainly was no Saint Veloth.

But, what in the world was Talvas thinking, asking Neloth a question like that? It was bad enough that he asked Neloth if he overtaxed himself by recalling from Whiterun back to Tel Mithryn. Of course, Neloth wasn't sweating from the absurdly long distance; that was water from – well, something.

This question seemed more like an accusation. After a few seconds of silence, Neloth finally spoke.

"Political leverage," he replied. "A crude tactic, admittedly, but it gets results. When dealing with barbarians such as Redoran, you must communicate as a barbarian. They were unharmed, of course; I wouldn't bring war or assassins into my city."

Not a grumble nor a single ounce of anger came from Neloth, as far as she could tell. That must have been some excellent sex if he was in the mood to answer such a bold question. Neloth's trip to the mainland didn't warm him to the Archmagister's letter, but, well –

The Nerevarine couldn't be a constant source of miracles, after all.

Chuckling under her breath, Varona turned her attention to the ledger once again. She continued her sums, trimming wherever she felt necessary. It was slow going; Neloth knew almost precisely how much money to allocate for the tower for each month. He was crafty, but Varona was crafty as well.

She started to get somewhere when Neloth called out to her from the other side of the tower.

"Varona. Come here."

Varona grit her teeth, put her quill down, and scooted her chair out from the table. What in the world could be more important than balancing the damned ledger? She did this for his benefit, whether he liked it or not.

Sighing, she made her way across the tower toward the enchanting room where Neloth waited. Varona entered the small area to see him leaning over the arcane enchanter with one of the largest-gemmed, most beautiful amulets she'd ever seen.

"Varona," Neloth said. "How much wealth do I have, hm? You do the ledger."

She did the monthly ledger, not an overall assessment. But she saw what he kept hidden in the cellar, the attic, the side rooms – all six of them – and had a rough estimate.

"Billions," she replied. "And that is in raw gold and silver, not counting the library, artifacts, and other items."

Damned fetcher ought to give a chunk of it to their suffering homeland.

"Oh."

Varona crossed her arms. "I told you this before you left for the mainland. Are you not aware of your wealth, Master?"

"As aware of it as I am my age," he shrugged. "It's there, but I don't think about it. I know that I am a wealthy man, as I am old; it's a mere fact."

Gods above. It figured. Was it possible for someone of his age to become senile, even though he had a youthful appearance?

He continued to do his enchanting, not bothering to look up at her. Varona narrowed her eyes. No; he simply didn't remember things that he couldn't be bothered to care about.

"In theory," Neloth began. "If I were to commission a silk robe for a taller than average, slender woman – in theory, mind you: What do you think the cost would be?"

Her eyes widened in shock. Neloth never spent money on anyone – other than the basics – except for himself.

"It depends on how fine the theoretical silk would be," Varona replied. "And if one were to have it embroidered."

He waved his hand in the air. "The most expensive, of course. Must be Morrowind-made, if it is to be done. Theoretically: Yellow looks good against black, yes? And green embroidery in the style of our House."

Varona smiled despite herself. "Yellow with green would be most lovely – in theory. I suggest fringe of some sort, in yellow."

She never saw the Nerevarine in clothing other than her dragon armor or a simple tunic and pants. Given her pauper background, it was likely the poor thing wouldn't know what to do with such a gift, nor would she understand its value. But she certainly would look lovely in yellow and green – her dark skin and hair would be so striking against such bold colors.

Neloth drummed his fingers on the enchanter. "Sure, fringe. Pearls, too," he added. "From Zafirbel Bay. Five strands, as large as possible."

"How quickly would you need these theoretical items, if they supposedly exist?"

"Expediently," Neloth scowled. "Now, quit smiling, get out of here, and please get it done. Damn the cost."

"For what it's worth," she offered, "we all like her a lot, hero aside."

His shoulders visibly hunched. "I know, Varona," he sighed. "Get those things done for me, will you? I want them as soon as possible."

"Of course, Master. There will be no issue in acquiring these items, I can assure you."

Varona held her hands up in defense and backed out of the room. Ever since Neloth went off to the mainland with Mehra, he'd been acting as if he were caught in a daydream. While she knew that the two of them had some sort of arrangement, Varona never suspected it to be an actual affair.

They seemed to be moving quickly. After all, Mehra visited for a handful of times. Perhaps, while everyone was gone, they hit if off well. That happened, sometimes.

A part of her selfishly wished that Mehra would become Lady of the tower. She wasn't an idealist when it came to romance, but if something more permanent happened, well –

Neloth found the word, "please" to be part of his vocabulary after she stayed over. Not to mention, the woman was incredibly pleasant for a self-proclaimed ex-murderer.

And babies. Varona loved babies. Maybe, they'd have one eventually, if it were possible.

Well, if she had permission to purchase a robe, then Neloth wouldn't notice if she pinched a bit extra from his coffers to purchase a few items for the Archmagister's arrival.

This would work out perfectly.

* * *

Mehra knew what it felt like to be used. All her life, she was put in situations where someone wanted her to do something for them. Usually, the arrangement was mutually beneficial.

She'd been used again, and this arrangement was likewise beneficial. From the second she opened the door to the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary, she knew that the whole thing was a setup.

The whisper in her mind – a woman's voice – told her that she'd been waiting. The voice encouraged her to kill every assassin in the hideout.

It appeared that both Mehra and the Night Mother had disdain for the group of assassins living in the dark sanctuary. Mehra didn't like the fanatics; she assumed that the Night Mother didn't like them because they were not fanatical enough.

A quick search through the belongings of the assassins she killed revealed that Astrid was their Night Mother, not the spirit of Sithis' supposed long-dead lover.

Mehra wasn't sure how the specifics of the Night Mother and Sithis worked out, and she didn't particularly care to know. The deed was done. She took nothing of their tainted belongings or blood money from the Sanctuary, declaring out loud to the not-so-empty space that she wanted nothing of the Brotherhood's belongings. If that pleased the Night Mother, Mehra couldn't say; the voice from the Void was done with her.

She walked back through the rain toward Falkreath to spend a night there, then backtracked the way toward Whiterun.

Mehra didn't think for a second that the Dark Brotherhood was actually finished. If anything, she merely took the heat off of herself for killing Astrid. She hoped her efforts proved to be useful; the last thing she wanted were revengeful assassins on her heels while she sorted out this Alduin mess.

It didn't sit well with her that the Night Mother benefited from this, but she felt it was the best option. She supposed she'd have to talk to Erich about the whole thing; he had direct communication with her at one time, after all.

The hypocrisy of sanctimoniously killing the cult off when she had once been a murderous thug soured her mood as she trekked back to Whiterun. The entire time she walked, Mehra asked Azura to guide her wretched hands.

Though, to be fair, Mephala and Boethiah were likely pleased by her actions.

Before she pleased others, she had to learn to be happy with herself. Two hundred and thirty-odd years of her life passed, and Mehra still couldn't find a way to own up to who she was – even if she stood behind most of the things she did.

She couldn't begin to guess how Erich had it figured out when she met him.

Comparing herself to someone completely different wasn't going to help. Mehra shoved the thoughts into a corner of her mind and climbed the winding road that led uphill toward Whiterun. She continued through the streets, nodding at the dozens of people who hailed her as Thane or Companion.

Mehra arrived at Breezehome and peered up at her new tower. Being famous without being infamous and terrifying to the masses was odd, but she'd give it time.

Eventually, she was certain she'd do something to become a horror once again who made everyone step to the other side of the street from her mere presence. In fact, if it somehow got out that she killed off the entire Dark Brotherhood, that would probably do it.

Shrugging it off, she opened the door to the house. Lydia startled at the sight of her and quickly stood from her seat in front of the unlit hearth.

"Whatever that was," she said. "It was quick. You look unharmed, so that's a relief."

Mehra nodded. "I wasn't hurt, no. Killing off the Dark Brotherhood was surprisingly easy; I guess I'm getting better."

Lydia gasped and Mehra winced.

"Keep that a secret, would you?" she mumbled. "I, uh – I don't do stuff like that usually."

"Dragons, assassins," Lydia frowned. "What else do you kill?"

Mehra pursed her lips. Was now a good time? She supposed it couldn't hurt.

"Gods," she shrugged. "Dagoth Ur and Almalexia, specifically. I'm the Dragonborn who saved Morrowind from the Blight two hundred years ago."

Lydia sucked in a breath and turned to look at a sealed letter on the side table. "Would it anger you if I said I already know this? Aela mentioned it; she assumed that you already told me."

"I'm sorry," Mehra sighed. "I told you only half the truth. I am a wizard, yes. But my youth at such an old age isn't from magic; it's from being partially cured of a horrible disease as the fulfillment of a prophecy."

"Whatever you do or have done is your business," Lydia shrugged. "I am sworn to bear your burdens, as well as your secrets. Does it bother you, though, that the texts refer to you as a man?"

Mehra sighed again in relief. Housecarls were trained for this sort of thing; of course, Lydia would be fine with it. That, and she already had time to process what it meant and read up on the story of the Nerevarine.

"Not at all," she replied. "I was a man in my past life. It's all the same to me, in a way."

Lydia nodded. "Makes sense. Now, you have an urgent letter from Winterhold. I figured it might be mysterious business; I will never open your letters unless you ask me to, regardless."

She walked over to the table, grabbed the letter, and handed it to Mehra.

"I know you're trained for this," Mehra said. "But you're good – really good."

"Thank you, my Thane."

Mehra turned her gaze to the letter, her stomach souring at the sight of the Archmage's seal. There was probably more trouble there, which would delay her trip to Cyrodiil to speak with the two mage groups to the south. Still, the College was important to her, and she wouldn't abandon them if they needed her help. Sucking in a breath, Mehra broke the seal, unfolded the letter, and began to read it.

_Master Dreloth,_

_Thanks to a small team of our Master Wizards at the College, we believe to have located someone who studies the type of rare, enchanted scrolls which you are seeking. The gentleman is doing a study in the ice packs to the north of the College. Once you arrive, we can give you a more precise location. Thank you for being patient, as we weren't certain about these ancient scrolls. I have no doubt that should you come across one, you would make great use of it._

_Regards,  
Savos Aren_

_Archmage_

Mehra gasped and swung her pack from her back. Stuffing the letter inside, she dropped her bag altogether and dashed across the room to rummage through the cupboards like a lunatic, searching for supplies.

"Lydia, cancel the Cyrodiil trip," she said. "They've got – it – up at the College. By the Gods, they've got it!"

Lydia nodded. "Excellent. I hope, um 'it' is truly there. Whatever 'it' is. Seems important."

Mehra opened a cupboard and quietly cheered at the sight of apples inside. Scooping the lot of them into her arms, she shuffled across the room.

"It is heresy," she said.

An apple tumbled out of her arms and Lydia winced.

"Heresy," Lydia repeated.

"Well, maybe," Mehra frowned. "I don't know this Temple stuff. Maybe not. Regardless, it's there and I'm going to use it."

She stuffed the apples into her bag as Lydia shook her head.

"I doubt it," Lydia said. "You seem to be respectful of people's beliefs. Well, the non-harmful ones, at least. Is there anything you need done while you are away?"

Mehra closed the flap on her bag and chuckled under her breath.

"Yeah. Go out with Aela again, if you like her."

She stood and swung her pack over her back. Turning to Lydia, she barely held in a laugh at the sight of her blushing.

"I – I do. I will."

"Great!" Mehra smiled. "I'll leave for Winterhold first thing in the morning. I'm sure you'll have plenty of time to arrange something. Have her come over, if you'd like."

Lydia drew in a breath and nodded. "Seems like you approve."

"Don't regret not pursuing a relationship like I did," she said.

"Did something happen with Neloth?" Lydia asked, her expression suddenly sad.

Mehra shook her head. "Not him; I'm so happy to have him. No, this was long before I got to know Neloth. But had I not ended the one I regret missing my chance with, then I may not have gotten to know Neloth. Maybe everything worked out in the end."

She threw her hands in the air when she realized that she just negated her own advice.

"My point is this," Mehra said. "Try it and see what happens."

Lydia nodded. "Sound advice. I suppose I will cancel the preparations for the Cyrodiil trip this evening, then try to arrange something with Aela."

Excellent," Mehra said. "I will do some enchanting reading, then call it an early night. I'm sorry that I've caused a bunch of work for you at a moment's notice."

Lydia shrugged and said that it was no problem. While Mehra supposed that these kinds of things happened frequently with nobility, she didn't quite consider herself such, and disliked being unreliable.

Regardless of the circumstances, Master Aren's letter was fortunate. A trip up to Winterhold was much quicker than one to Cyrodiil, especially since it appeared that Winterhold had a solid lead on an Elder Scroll.

Briefly, she thought of her strange encounter with the cultist woman on her way to the Brotherhood Sanctuary.

There was something – someone – waiting for her out in the ice. Could the brine be the ocean?

Mehra chastised herself. Of course, it meant the ocean. What else could it be? Pickles?

She made her way up to her tower and settled into a nest of floor pillows in the corner with a book about Alteration. Mehra used to cast to fortify her strength and speed, but such spells were beyond her and had been for quite some time. According to the book, she needed a reserve of a lot of magicka in order to cast a spell with an appreciable difference, and much more to cast both at the same time.

On top of that, Mehra needed to be able to cast powerful ranged destruction spells while fortifying her attributes. The amount of magicka required in order to do that was enormous, and it was something she hadn't done before in her life. When she fortified her strength and speed in the past, it was done so she could give someone a brutal beating or get close quickly enough to run them through- armor and all.

She didn't believe she could brute-force a dragon. It would be nice, however, to fortify her speed in order to dodge their attacks better.

After poring through the book, Mehra didn't find any solutions. Perhaps, Tolfdir could help her figure out what to do; he was a Master of Alteration. She bet that it was a matter of 'opening her mind' or other such things that she didn't bother with.

Mehra put the book away and readied herself for bed, grateful that at least, she had word that there could be an Elder Scroll in the province. The thought had her asleep almost immediately.

Dawn broke the next day, revealing overcast skies and muddy slop covering the roads from a storm the night before. Mehra gathered her gear and left the city. On her way out, she overheard people discussing a violent thunderstorm the night before – one she slept through entirely.

It didn't surprise her; she slept through nearly anything.

Mehra slogged her way down the road, stepping over puddles of water whenever she could. The mud was thick where there were missing stones from the road, and where the stones lay embedded in the ground was a thin film of slippery mud. With each step she traveled away from the city, the condition of the road worsened.

Up ahead, somewhere in the far distance, was something that didn't belong. From a quick glance, it looked to be an abandoned wagon, but as she drew closer, she caught sight of a Whiterun guard and someone dressed head to toe in red. Curious, Mehra picked up her pace then stopped as soon as she saw the situation.

Of all the things she expected to see that day, she didn't expect the sight of a crying middle-aged man in a jester outfit sitting in a wagon with a coffin in the back.

"Do you need help?" she asked.

The guard startled and turned to look at her.

"Ah, Dragonborn," he said. "Don't worry about it."

Mehra peered beyond the guard to the man in the back of the wagon, then down to the broken wagon wheel. The storm must have had something do with the state of the wagon. If the jester knew she was there, he didn't indicate so; he sat in the wagon looking so hopeless that he didn't seem to notice anything beyond his misfortune.

"No, I think I can help," she replied.

The guard bowed slightly and gave her a salute. "Of course, my Thane."

Mehra jogged over to the back of the broken wagon where the jester sat, rubbing his eyes with his red sleeve.

"Stuck?" she asked. "Need help?"

He looked up at her with glassy eyes and blinked. "Oh! Oh yes! The kindly stranger certainly can help!"

"Guy's a bit of a loon, ma'am," the guard mumbled.

The man shrieked and scrambled to the far end of the wagon. "Is not! Cicero is not! Mean guard!"

Mehra shrugged. "I've got a bit of a soft spot for loons," she said. "So no worries if you are. There's a farm back a little ways. I'll see if they've got an extra wheel and a pair of hands to help."

"Ah! Thank you," Cicero cheered. "And mother thanks you, too!"

Mother? Mehra eyed the coffin and furrowed her brow.

"That's your mother, then?" she asked.

Of course, idiot. He said his mother would be grateful, and she did happen upon him sitting there crying.

"Adopted, yes," he replied.

"And you're sure that's not contraband in there?" the guard asked. "Not trying to be insensitive; I just have to ask."

Cicero jumped up and scowled at the guard. "Don't you lay even a finger on mother!"

"I believe him," Mehra interjected.

"Ma'am, I understand, but –"

"I trust my instincts," she said. "That's his mother, there. Let's be respectful."

"Of course, my Thane. I shall trust your instincts as well. You have my apologies, citizen."

Mehra gave the pair a nod. "I'll be back soon. Don't worry."

With that, she took off down the road in the direction of the farm she knew lay just a few minutes away. Though she knew this would take up part of her traveling time, Mehra knew she couldn't just leave the poor guy to fend for himself.

It took some time for her to convince the farm owner to help, and only after an offer of paying for the parts and labor did Mehra get help for the stranded traveler. While the situation disappointed her, she knew that people were always like this; they were suspicious and hostile toward the needy.

Mehra knew all too well. She was one of them, once. And, knowing this, she couldn't judge the farmer nor the guard for being suspicious of a traveler. To Mehra, the guy was perfectly fine unless he proved himself otherwise, and he likely wouldn't. She'd rather help out hundreds of people who turned out to be awful than to leave a single one behind who truly needed help.

She rode in the farmer's wagon with him on the way back to the stranded jester, both of them silent. When they arrived, Mehra stood by guarding them as the farmer, guard, and traveler worked on the wagon.

"Where are you headed, traveler?" the guard asked.

Cicero sighed. "Falkreath."

That made sense. Hopefully, they weren't full, there; the city appeared to be limited on space for burials, given the war that was going on. There wasn't much else in Falkreath; the dead outnumbered the living there by the hundreds.

It seemed odd to her that a clearly pure Imperial man from Cyrodiil would bury his mother in Falkreath, but he did say that he was adopted. She supposed it wasn't her business to pry, regardless; it was his business, and she had her own business to mind.

Mehra hoped that this lead on an Elder Scroll wouldn't turn out to be a dead end, but the odds were that it would. Finding one sitting around in a cave or or something was near impossible. The scrolls were mysterious in and of themselves. All she knew was that they were supposedly Divine in origin and they tended to blind people who looked at them enough. The contents of the scrolls or what they were capable of was a mystery.

Paarthurnax had a good theory, at least. Since the Elder Scrolls were of Akatosh, then they could be used to perhaps bend time in some sort of way. It was risky, though; she could fling herself into the past, become caught in between the flow of time, or create another Dragon Break.

What would happen if she broke time? Would people from the past come to the future, and those from the future go into the past? Would time cease altogether and everyone ever made would be alive at the same time? As far as Mehra was concerned, her past self could stay right where she was. But, if past-Erich somehow ended up in her time from a Dragon Break –

"My Thane?"

Mehra startled and shook her head. She was thinking utter nonsense. Nobody knew exactly how a Dragon Break worked, or if it even happened in the first place.

She turned to see that the repair was finished, and the farmer was already headed down the road. Mehra turned to the traveling jester and gave him a nod.

"All good, now?" she asked.

Cicero breathed a sigh of relief. He looked much better than he did when she first arrived.

"Yes," he replied. "I – I was absolutely overcome! Cicero didn't know what to do. He couldn't just leave mother in the wagon and walk away!"

Mehra nodded in agreement. The last thing the guy needed were bandits rummaging through the wagon, or birds coming after his mother's corpse.

"Have you enough food to make it to Falkreath?" the guard asked.

"Yes, certainly."

Mehra glanced back to the coffin in the wagon. "Please be careful out here. I don't know what the Stormcloaks will do to an Imperial man with a Cyrodiilic accent."

"Oh, no problem," he chuckled. "It will be no problem at all for Cicero."

He seemed sure of himself – much too sure, when she thought of it. Either he was cocky, insane, or had something to back that up. Mehra couldn't tell; the jester outfit was distracting,

"Alright, well," she sighed, "for what it's worth, I'm sorry for your loss."

He shrugged. "Mother carries on in spirit as she did in life."

"A beautiful sentiment," the guard said. "Watch the skies, traveler."

Mehra nodded. The last thing the guy needed was a dragon attack. With that, she watched as Cicero urged his scrawny horse to pull the wagon down the road to the south. As soon as he left, she thanked the guard and headed on her way.

Master Aren's letter had her in good spirits. Perhaps, the world would have mages to thank for saving them.


	39. Chapter 39

A/n: Ok, so a bit of lore here...

Aryon is said to be a young upstart in Morrowind, at 1000 years old. This would mean he's born 2E 5th century. ESO takes place 2E 6th century.

One would assume that Neloth is at least 500+ years older than Aryon, given that he is considered not an upstart, right? Why in the heck wouldn't he be a Telvanni Master or at least exist in some capacity in ESO? Like, am I crazy or something? Also, he has 'never been to the mainland', so this means he must be on Vvardenfell.

I know, I know; MMOs are usually death to lore in many instances. The problem is Bethesda is treating ESO as canon and the inconsistencies are grinding my gears... not that I haven't messed some things up (cough... Miraak 10,000 years in Apocrypha, really? Got to edit that one; more like 4,500-5,000... Math is not our strong suit, okay?)

Sidenote that I've had to redo some stuff with my outline, including these next few chapters. Sometimes, you've got to re-order things in order for them to make more sense. I hope that I have it all together, now. Also, FINALLY the landscaper is done with his work and I feel like I don't have a dude staring at me constantly ew

Tldr; thank you for bearing with me while my life has been upside-down! :)

* * *

 

_"If you must be stupid, at least be amusing." -Sotha Sil_   
  


* * *

 

4E 0. Cyrodiil.

The amount of attention this man got was dizzying. And it was worse in the Imperial City than it was elsewhere. Erich couldn't go down a street without at least two people calling out to him. Some were poor, some were just average, and still others were some of the richest people in the city.

Being a hero who didn't terrorize people did that, she guessed. It made Mehra glad that she went out of her way to gain a nasty reputation. People just didn't pester her in Morrowind.

"If you want anything," Erich said, "I know someone. Anything- not an exaggeration."

Mehra nodded. She didn't doubt that in the least. Feeling competitive, she gave him a smirk.

"I can do the same in Morrowind," she drawled. "And I can get a steep discount with one look."

Erich chuckled. "Would that look happen to be a glare?"

Mehra simply laughed. What else could it be?

He leaned over and wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

"Get a man who can do both," he murmured.

She didn't have to see him to know that he said it with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows. It didn't take long for Mehra to figure out that he slept around with nearly anyone he could get his hands on. The rumors were everywhere. While she admired his fortitude with her – they were together constantly since they met and he stuck by her the whole time – she wondered when he'd eventually crack.

Maybe, he'd beg her. She couldn't think of a bigger turn-on, honestly.

"Whatever look that is," Erich whispered, "I like it. What are you thinking about?"

She chuckled under her breath.

"Choking you, mostly."

He coughed. "There's a first time for everything, I guess. Usually, I'm asked –"

"Yoo-hoo! Hey, Red!"

Mehra turned to see a wealthy older woman in burgundy leaning out of a window with a handkerchief in her hand. The woman gave him a bawdy smile and Mehra narrowed her eyes. She was catcalling him. She was a little old biddy, but she supposed she was pretty enough.

Surely he wouldn't have.

Repressing the urge to scowl, Mehra followed Erich over to the older woman's door, which swung open to reveal the woman who called out.

She wore a fine, burgundy linen tunic that showed off her bosom. A matching burgundy skirt complemented her tiny waist, form-fitting enough to show off her shapely lower half. Alright, she was a beautiful older woman. Mehra didn't like this in the least.

She nearly torched the lady outright when she grabbed Erich's arm and leaned in to him.

"I haven't seen you in some time, Red," she said. "Been working hard?"

There was that name, again. Mehra could have sworn that a lot of gingers hated being called by their hair color, but perhaps, Erich just went with it. He responded to it throughout the day, and only people in the Imperial City called him 'Red'.

How odd.

"I'm thinking of retiring, actually," Erich said.

The woman looked absolutely shocked at this information, then motioned for them to come inside.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Forgive my terrible manners. Come inside, please."

Mehra hated pleasantries, but followed Erich inside the house nonetheless. Predictably, the home was lavishly decorated, and servants milled about taking care of the place for the owners.

She wanted to know what Erich meant by 'retire'. He was too good to quit on swinging a sword around. It'd be a damn shame if he became a slouch.

A man about the same age as the woman descended the nearby stairs. He, too, was dressed in expensive clothing, and had an appearance just as nice as the woman.

"Red!" he called. "Wonderful to see you."

He motioned to Mehra. "Is this your, uh, colleague? Miss, you are absolutely ravishing."

The woman nodded in agreement, a wicked smile crossing her face. Mehra didn't like where this was going; she had no interest in the old fool, so the lady could back off.

"No, Sir," Erich said. "She's my, um –"

He turned to her, looking helpless. Mehra gave him a smirk.

"You have it the wrong way," she said. "You are mine, not the other way around. Don't forget it."

"Yes, Master," he chuckled.

The couple looked shocked, but the husband recovered quickly.

"Mara's Mercy!" he laughed. "The man's settled down a bit! Good on you."

The woman gave Mehra a sad smile and offered her hand. "He's a keeper; trust me. I'm Renee Geonette. This is my husband, Salomon. He is a composer, patronized by the Imperial Court."

Mehra shook her hand. Good thing they knew who was with whom. She didn't take kindly to this handsy nonsense.

"Renee, Salomon," Erich said. "This is Mehra Dreloth, Telvanni Master. She is the youngest to ever be named Master by House Telvanni."

Renee lit up in recognition. "Oh goodness! It is such an honor. The Empire is strengthened immeasurably by Morrowind. And I hear the weather there is simply paradise, in particular, in Sadrith Mora."

"You wouldn't get far if you went there," Mehra shrugged.

Erich winced, but Renee took this in stride.

"Understandable," she replied. "Many leaders of House Telvanni remember the independent era. I'm sure this is a difficult change, even now."

"Oh, she's only thirty three," Erich shrugged.

Renee closed her eyes and sucked in a breath. "Dear, we never comment on the age of a Mer, especially a Mer wizard. I'd hate you to get in trouble over something like this were you to say it around someone less – genial."

Mehra shrugged. She didn't give a shit; she was the best, even if the Council thought she was just a kid.

"I'll remember that in the future," Erich said. "Thank you."

"Now," Renee said. "What's this about retiring? I'm sure it's a risky line of work. We'll miss you, but it makes sense."

Salomon gasped in surprise. "Retiring? No more plunging into the depths of gaping caverns or ruins unimaginable for pay?"

There was a twinkle in his eye, and Mehra suspected that the guy had some sort of romantic notion about the both of them.

Gross. This wasn't like that. They were –

It was something. Something that didn't include the word 'courting'.

Erich shook his head. "Not a single cavern, Salomon. I'm thinking of handing my clients off to my friend, Archer. He's a hard worker and very capable. And besides; nothing's a ruin. They're all just unique and different, some older than others. They're all fine just the way they are."

The couple gave each other a wicked look, and Mehra wondered what in the hell they were actually talking about.

"Probably wise to quit while you're young and intact," Renee sighed. "I'll miss your work, of course. Will have to train someone to do it as well as you do it."

Oh, he did salvage from time to time.

Mehra glanced around to see a few artifacts scattered as decoration about the room. She supposed it took a certain touch to not break these things, as well as know their value. Erich did like reading about old civilizations, so that was probably why.

Did they have to use so much innuendo, though? Mehra did not like the look this Renee woman was giving him.

"Archer is really good," Erich said. "I think you'll be very satisfied with him."

Renee nodded. "He is. He's a lovely man. I understand that you need to do what you need to do."

Erich thanked her, and, as they left, the couple said goodbye to 'Red' in a way that made it sound like they'd never see him again. Mainlanders were dramatic; it was something she didn't really miss when she lived on Vvardenfell.

Erich and Mehra traveled through the street to find somewhere to take a quiet lunch. People predictably called out to him and many barely noticed her. All she could guess was that Erich did quite a bit of salvage.

Later, when Mehra met Archer, she wondered why he dressed more like a prostitute than a salvager.

* * *

 

4E 201. Winterhold.

Mehra gave up hope long ago that any of her tasks would have a simple and straightforward path.

When she arrived at Winterhold, Master Aren directed her toward the remote outpost of a former associate of the College, Septimus Signus. Mehra arrived at the frozen, subterranean outpost in the middle of the ocean to find a raving elderly man obsessed with the Dwemer. While she didn't feel like she could necessarily trust him, she did trust that Master Aren was confident in the man's knowledge of the Elder Scrolls.

The items that Septimus gave her were indeed legitimate. Though Mehra hadn't seen either one before in her life, she knew that they were keys of some sort. Nerevar knew of these things; Mehra considered it a boon.

There was a ruin which had an Oculory, and Septimus needed the information from the Elder Scroll locked in said Oculory to be transcribed onto an ancient Dwemer lexicon. He said she could keep the scroll, so everything worked out.

After getting the Elder Scroll, she'd have to return to Septimus with his lexicon. They made a deal, after all, and she had to keep her end of the bargain. She needed an Elder Scroll, and he was desperate to get into the large Dwemer lockbox sitting in his outpost cave. He directed her to Alftand, located in the middle of nowhere to the west of Winterhold.

Mehra felt that she ought to have known that her quest would lead her into yet another labyrinth of traps and pitfalls created by the Dwemer. After all, if one was in search of ancient and mysterious power, it was highly likely that a Dwemer ruin was the place to find it.

The Dwemer ruins in Skyrim were far worse than those in Morrowind. Not only were they much more ponderous to navigate, but they were also overrun with the pitiful, savage things which the proud Snow Elves had become.

When she arrived, Mehra found that an expedition gone awry happened to be located there. After digging through the adventurers' tattered camp, she found herself grateful that at least none of them were from Winterhold. As she traveled deeper into the ruin, she encountered remains of explorers and the Falmer which attacked them.

Mehra found an odd sort of irony in the fact that the enslaved Snow Elves – the Falmer – outlived their masters by thousands of years and thrived on their own beneath the surface, feral as they were. While she found killing them to be distasteful, Mehra didn't have much say in the matter; they'd all die if she didn't get that scroll.

Knowing that Dwemer and Falmer items were somewhat of a novelty, Mehra grabbed two small weapons of each, as well as a centurion core. She'd gift the core to Master Aren. One set of weapons would go to the College for educational materials, while the other would be for the Companions. The Falmer weapons were filthy and bloody, but she could give them a good cleaning later.

Likely, both races would take exception to their weapons becoming souvenirs, but both were valuable and could be used for lessons.

The ruins wound deeper – almost as deep as Red Mountain. After the two surviving members of the doomed expedition attacked her, Mehra used the attunement sphere which Septimus gave her in order to open a secret passage downward.

Mehra trudged down the stairs, stopped in front of the heavy doors at the bottom, and threw them open. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight that greeted her.

In front of her was a large plaza, illuminated by both Dwemer fire and glowing roots of mushrooms. Mehra barely breathed as she stepped out from under the large awning of the door. Above her, dozens of bioluminescent life forms illuminated the ceiling in a dizzying display that rivaled the cosmos.

She stood on a large rampart overlooking the plaza and the buildings therein. All around her, gigantic, luminous mushrooms lit the area. It reminded her somewhat of the small pocket of Oblivion which Erich created, and she wondered if he knew anything about this place.

Septimus called it 'Blackreach', but Mehra knew it as Fal'Zhardum Din. She wondered if it had the same mushrooms in its prime, but there was no way of truly knowing. Mehra made her way down from the rampart on which she stood, the sight of a Dwemer automaton across the ancient road in front of her bringing her pause.

Just because the place was beautiful didn't mean it wasn't dangerous.

Sucking in a breath, Mehra crept forward to the Dwemer sphere idling in front of a small building across the street. It alerted to her presence quickly and rolled forward to attack.

Mehra had a wealth of experience with these. Drawing her sword, she charged it and wedged her blade in between two plates on the side of the machine. While Dwemer metal was among one of the toughest in existence, it was no match for daedric smithing. The Dwemer sphere shorted out and collapsed as she severed a vital connection in it.

She withdrew her blade, backed against a shadow on the side of the building, and peered out at the ghost town. Thankfully, the commotion hadn't drawn any attention. Breathing a sigh of relief, Mehra turned to the building and shrugged. The only way of knowing if it contained something important was to go inside.

With her blade in hand, Mehra pushed the doors to the building open. An unmistakable, pulsating chiming sound greeted her and she winced. What was that stuff? Erich grabbed it anytime he could and delivered it in batches to an alchemist in Skingrad.

She glanced around the building and saw the thing in a pot in the corner. Nirnroot; that was the stuff. Though this one was red. Perhaps, it was distressed.

Curious, Mehra approached the singing plant and eyed the dried, green samples to the side of the pot, then glanced back to the red one. It appeared healthy. How odd.

Turning around, she saw a skeleton across the room. Whomever the person was, they seemed to be an alchemist of some sort, given the amount of dried and rotten ingredients about the place. Mehra approached the skeleton and found a dusty field journal to the side of it. Grabbing the journal, she sat in a nearby stone chair, gently unwound the binding cord on the journal, and opened it.

This was one of the fun parts of exploring – to find out what happened to people of the past.

The first few pages of the journal revealed a shock. This traveler – presumably the dead person – studied Nirnroot all his life. He mentioned a traveler who provided him with bundles of the rare ingredient, with which he created a few potions in his workshop in Skingrad.

Mehra glanced up from the book to the skeleton. This was that guy that Erich got the Nirnroot for.

"World's damn small," she murmured, turning back to the journal.

The journal described how a traveler brought a sample of what he called 'crimson Nirnroot' to him. Apparently, this special variety was only found here. The rest was obvious; the alchemist died in his quest to find more of the crimson Nirnroot within the dangerous ruins.

Mehra closed the journal and sighed. Standing, she made her way over to the potted sample, picked it, pressed it inside the journal, and wound the journal back up to put in her pack.

She'd give this to Erich later. Perhaps, he'd find it interesting.

She turned to the skeleton behind her.

"I'm giving it to the guy who gave you the green ones," she said.

Grumbling under her breath, she left the building. The guy wasn't there, but she felt an urge to tell the air what she was doing. Not wanting to waste any more time, Mehra crept across the expansive cave in search of an exit. The geometric city was rather easy to navigate, and within a few minutes, she came across a door that led into more typical Dwemer ruins.

Bored again, Mehra passed through what looked like a large meeting room and pushed the door open on the far end of the room. The sight that greeted her had her breathing a sigh of relief.

The Oculory was in this room, and with it, she would transcribe the lexicon that Septimus gave her. Mehra climbed the ramp to her left and approached the control console at the back of the Oculory. Knowing it had to be realigned, Mehra placed the lexicon in its proper place and made a guess at the controls, keeping an eye on the light that came in from the top of the Oculory.

In a small amount of time, Mehra had the Oculory realigned. She grabbed the lexicon from its place and stared out at the massive machine moving in front of her. It lowered a large crystal from the ceiling and opened the crystal to reveal a scroll so blindingly bright that it reminded her of the sun off of the snow.

"Definitely going to have to hide that in my bag," she mumbled, stumbling down from the console in awe.

With shaking legs, Mehra approached the Elder Scroll in front of her, grabbed it, and put it into her bag. Her objective was shockingly easy, to the point where she wondered when something would happen to hinder her.

She descended the ramp that led down from the console and turned to the awning underneath it. Knowing what she did of Dwemer locations, there was certain to be one of their mass transport contraptions nearby, and it would lead her to the surface. A quick glance in the door beyond the awning revealed that her hunch was correct. Mehra stepped inside the chamber, pulled the lever, and rode the platform up to the surface. Pulling the lever on the gate that led to the outside, she stepped out into the snow of a mountain and sucked in a breath. There was no telling where the ruins led her.

Mehra glanced out at the remains of a camp, then walked forward toward a rocky outcropping where she could get a vantage point. Trudging up the side of the slippery rock, she quickly cast levitation as a precaution, then peered out at the world below.

To her right, an unmistakable field of yellow-green and various rocks spread out as far as she could see. That was Whiterun hold, meaning that she was far from Winterhold.

Mehra cast a glance back to the ruins behind her and sighed. She could travel back through those for days on end, or she could travel on the surface.

The prospect of the dark, dangerous ruins made her step forward off the ledge and levitate down the mountain's slope. If she used Whiterun as a marker, then she needed to head northeast to get back to Winterhold, and the place where Septimus kept his study.

As she descended the mountain, the air grew warmer, but she knew it'd be short-lived with her trek north. Even in the summer, Winterhold was markedly colder than elsewhere in Skyrim. The place had the potential to frost throughout the year, and Mehra found herself grateful for Neloth's cape. Though it was lightweight, it gave her enough warmth to not have to bother with a cloak. It took a long walk to get back there, but eventually, she passed through Winterhold, then across the half-frozen sea to the north in order to get to the remote outpost.

Septimus Signus' outpost was a strange cave of ice and snow, inhospitable to anyone sane. It didn't take more than a sentence of the man talking for Mehra to conclude that there was a very specific reason why the man lived under the ice in the ocean:

He was indeed insane. Septimus paced day and night in front of a large Dwemer cube under the ice, his habit obvious by the path he wore in the ice in front of the place. The path down to his little camp was made of slippery ice and rock, and from the pile of refuse in the corner of the base of his little hovel and the slickness of the ice, it was plain that he hadn't left his camp in the time she had been gone.

Mehra eyed the sewage in the corner and found herself thankful for the cold keeping the smell down to a tolerable level.

"Did you get it?" a voice called out.

"Yes," she replied. "Your lead on the scroll was perfect. I've returned your favor. The lexicon has the information you needed."

She stopped at the bottom of the slope, and Septimus scrambled over to her.

"Give it, quickly," he said.

He eyed the lexicon and talked in jargon about blood and extractions, finally handing her a Dwemer device that would extract blood. Septimus instructed her to get blood from every race of mer available and told her that it was the key to opening the Dwemer cage behind them.

Mehra eyed the ruin in suspicion. "So, what do you think is in there?"

He turned to her with wild eyes.

"The box contains the essence of a God," Septimus said. "It was thought to have been destroyed by the Nerevarine, but my Lord told me otherwise!"

She closed her eyes and sighed. The Heart of Lorkhan was gone, period.

"Who is your lord?"

"Hermaeus Mora," he replied. "I thought there were no secrets left to know, until I spoke to him. He asks a price to work his will. In time, he bought me here, to the box. But he won't tell me how to open it! Maddening."

Alright, so this was her encounter, apparently. Unsure if she could get the samples in decent time, Mehra put the extractor into her pack, then gave Septimus a nod.

"This is a lot of work," she said. "But I'll see what I can do with this."

He stared at the door blankly. "It's fine. We've gotten so far. Soon, though."

She'd deal with him when he found out the Heart wasn't in there; it made no sense to get on him about it at the moment. Turning away, Mehra trudged back up the steep, icy path back toward the entrance.

A scream caught in her throat at the sight at the entrance of the cave. Lurking at the top of the path was swirling mass of black mist and writhing tentacles. A massive, golden eye peered out from the mist, while other, smaller eyes of different shapes floated around it. There was only one thing in existence she could think of that had such an appearance. Shaking, she approached what she was certain was Hermaeus Mora.

"I have been watching you, mortal," a voice called. "You have improved in a short amount of time."

The sound was deep and echoing, yet hushed, as if he were both shouting across a labyrinth and whispering in her ear.

"I am humbled by your gaze, Great Lord of Knowledge."

The thought of being watched by him terrified her to no end. Hermaeus Mora chuckled to himself. More likely than not, he read her thoughts.

"Septimus is wearing out his use," he said. "You, on the other hand, have been continually useful for many of us. I want you to get into that Dwemer cube down there for me. Of course, if you do so, there will be a reward."

She winced and thought of the extractor in her bag.

"Would I be able to scrape some of the Falmer blood off of one of the blades I have?" she asked.

Hermaeus Mora laughed. "No."

Mehra turned back to the ancient safe and sighed. Hermaeus Mora did give good rewards, generally. While she didn't think she was safe – never was, with a Daedric Prince – she did believe him at his word, given who she was. He wouldn't attempt to claim Azura's chosen.

"The contents of the box will aid you on your quest," he said. "I don't have to convince you; I know what you'll choose. You want to be prepared against Alduin."

He was correct. Likely, he aggravated his kin by being correct so often.

"I've played the 'time is of the essence' game for months," Mehra admitted. "So I can't begin to make excuses that getting this blood will take too long. And, there are many mer at the College. I could even use it on myself."

A tentacle waved in the air out of the mist, as if making a gesture.

"Do not use the extractor on yourself," Hermaeus Mora said.

Mehra nodded. "So, it kills people?"

"Just," he sighed, "don't use it on yourself."

"Death, confirmed. I'll find some brigands."

"You do that," he chuckled.

"Typical Dwemer stuff; kills people."

"Indeed," Hermaeus Mora said. "Do be careful. I will see you soon, Little Azura. You are – hm, amusing."

With that, the mist blocking the entrance dissipated, leaving the outpost as it had once appeared. Mehra turned and glanced down to Septimus, who seemed to not have noticed anything. It was quite likely that Hermaeus Mora cast a spell on Septimus in order to keep their conversation private.

Mehra exited the post, cast a water walking spell, and walked her way across the thin ice, leaving broken footprints across the ice behind her. As she walked, she wondered how to get the blood for the extractor, given what it did. Perhaps, Master Aren would know.

If she approached him honestly, he'd be more receptive, at least. Either that, or she could ask the Jarl if there were brigands who needed clearing out. With Master Aren's permission, she could pass it off as an action of goodwill from the College. It was horribly manipulative, but nobody who couldn't keep their mouth shut had to know that she was messing around with blood.

After a short walk across the water, Mehra stepped onto the shore surrounding Winterhold. She trudged across the rocky beach, keeping her head down to avoid confrontation with the breeding horkers nearby. Thankfully, they seemed more interested in fighting each other, and she found the path leading up to town without incident.

When she arrived back at the College, a quick meeting with Master Aren told her that her plan wouldn't work. The Jarl didn't like the College in the least, and many in town blamed them for the wall of water that nearly destroyed Winterhold altogether.

She did, however, get the location of a Falmer encampment not too far away from Azura's shrine. Mehra was too curious about Hermaeus Mora's reward to take a break, and ended up heading out for the cave as soon as she received its location.

A hike up the mountain revealed the cave to be a hole that led deep into the earth, one of which only the most foolish of travelers would bother to explore. Mehra was quite foolish when the mood suited her.

She cast levitation and descended down into the pit. When she reached the bottom, she stared around in shock. There was an actual camp down here, complete with tents, cookware, and a small reading nook. A glance to the contents of the nook revealed a book on pickpocketing. Wary, Mehra drew her dagger and crept forward to the ledge beyond the camp, grateful that her levitation spell made her completely silent.

It ended up unnecessary; the would-be thieves were dead and riddled with Falmer arrows. Judging by the scene, it looked to be relatively recent, and –

One was Dunmer, and the other was Bosmer. How fortunate.

Quickly, she gathered the blood samples with the extractor, trekked deeper into the cave, and found a Falmer camp. Mehra kept her fight with them as quiet as possible in an attempt to not alert others deeper in the cave, and extracted blood from one of them after the fight was finished.

She glanced further down the cave and shrugged. Maybe there was something nice down there, but she had no need for anything, and gold was rather mundane.

Mehra chuckled under her breath, cast levitate, and headed back the way she came. She really was getting old; the idea of gold was boring to her, now.

She left the cave and wandered down a path that led out from the area. Finding the blood of an Altmer was concerning, as there really weren't many engaged in a life of crime in Skyrim.

Assaulting an Aldmeri Justiciar or Emissary wouldn't do, unfortunately.

Mehra chastised herself for the nasty thought and continued her wandering. A brief trek up the mountains had her stopping to peer out over a ledge at Winterhold and the sea beyond it. There was a barrow to the side of the road, but it wasn't likely that there would be much of anything in there aside from draugr.

She stared out at the horizon and sighed in defeat. This would take longer than she hoped. Winterhold was the middle of nowhere, and it was so cold that not even bandits wanted to bother with the place.

A circle of dark stones stood out on an island in the water, causing her to squint and lean forward. Those were standing stones, weren't they?

It was worth a look. There could be crazy cultists or necromancers there.

Mehra glanced around and thankfully saw no travelers or guards. Grateful to be alone, she cast levitate and took off down the mountain. The last thing she wanted was to be branded a devil-worshiper of some sort due to using a rare spell whose art was dying out.

She was a daedra worshiper, after all, not a devil worshiper. There was a difference.

Mehra wandered off the road below the mountain and across the icy water that led to the standing stone. From a distance, she saw robed figures in black and silently cheered. Now, if they'd attack her as she drew closer –

A fireball flew at her, causing her to yelp and jump to the side. Swearing under her breath about them not waiting, Mehra cast a warding spell, drew her sword, and ran forward. She couldn't throw fire at them, nor could she shout; she wanted these bodies intact and easy to get to.

Shouting rang out across the sea as she ran directly to them. Another fireball flew in her direction, absorbing into her ward and giving her a light shove. Mehra landed on the island and found herself surrounded by a handful of necromancers. Not wanting them to get any sort of advantage, she charged one of them with her sword and ran him through.

"Shit! Daedric weapon!" A man shouted.

Mehra whirled around to stab another one of the necromancers. The rest of them backed away from their friend, leaving him to fall by her sword.

"I've warned you idiots to look before you attack!" A woman hissed. She swore out loud and took off across the water with a flourish of her glowing hand.

Mehra held her ward up and peered over at the escaping woman.

Breton. Not useful.

Shrugging, she turned to the terrified group. There was a dead Altmer at her feet, and one of the remaining necromancers was an Orc. Suspiciously, a dead Stormcloak lay in the half-melted snow behind them, along with a pair of slain ice wraiths. They saw where she was looking and shuffled to the side to block the body from view.

"We surrender!" one of them cried. "Please, don't hurt us!"

Mehra sighed and sucked in a breath. That was a conundrum. She needed Orc blood; she couldn't say she cared too much about the dead rebel. Figuring she ought to do something, she gave them a smile and did her best Erich Heartfire impression.

"Want to help with a great discovery?" she asked. "If one of you is very good at restoration, this might actually work. I have a Dwemer device that collects blood. I'm sure that's something you might be interested in, right?"

They gave her a strange look and nodded slowly.

At least she had willing volunteers. Unlike Erich, however, she'd leave them alive when she was done.

* * *

This hunting trip seemed like a ruse to get her here, and Lydia couldn't say she was upset – far from it, actually. Aela brought her to a secluded waterfall in the middle of the forest, complete with a large rock on which they could lounge around in the sunlight that filtered through the trees.

With all the traveling Mehra did, Lydia was very glad that she let her go about as she pleased. She didn't know what she'd do, otherwise,

"My Thane always so busy," Lydia said. "Makes my head spin."

Aela chuckled and lay back against the rock. "She has many responsibilities. I was wondering if Kodlak was going to name her as Harbinger, actually."

Lydia pursed her lips. "You're an excellent Harbinger."

"I appreciate that," she sighed. "Seems that I'm learning slowly. It's not an easy job. Mehra would have been great."

"We are all learning," Lydia said. "Even that wizard that Mehra brought to visit."

"Which one?" Aela asked.

Lydia sat up with a start. "Which one?" she repeated.

There was only Neloth, as far as she knew.

Aela swore under her breath. "Well, he doesn't seem to be a wizard, but with how old he is, there aren't many options. You – you haven't met Erich, yet?"

Lydia shook her head and Aela swore again.

"I'm turning into a damn gossip by accident," she grumbled. "Well, you'll meet him at some point. Erich is her friend – her something – from way back. He looks normal but the guy is noticeably insane once he gets to talking. Big guy, white hair, 'not quite there' eyes. Strong. Dresses like an old ranger. He speaks in riddles and seems to know too much about all sorts of things."

Lydia nodded in thought. "I'm sure I'd remember such a person, so no, I'm certain I haven't met him. But, he's special to her?"

"Yes, very."

She shrugged. Lydia was reading about the Dunmer people: their religion, government, culture. Before the Empire annexed Morrowind, relationships between multiple people weren't unheard of. And given that Mehra supposedly had an old soul, it made sense that perhaps, she had two lovers.

"It's probably not a big deal," she concluded. "Must be a Dunmer thing."

"But Erich is one of us," Aela noted.

"I can't comment," Lydia sighed. "I suppose I'll know more when I meet him. It doesn't seem like her to be a cheat, though."

"I agree."

They sat together in silence for a while. Lydia stared out at the waterfall and sighed. Her life had taken an interesting turn. Though she was grateful for the opportunity to be a Housecarl, she couldn't help but wonder what was in store for her in the future, given how unconventional Mehra was as a Thane in general. The Jarl picked well, however; Mehra would fight for Whiterun and keep the Hold's best interests in mind wherever she went.

"How do you like being a Housecarl?" Aela asked.

Lydia smiled and relaxed back against the rock next to Aela.

"It's a dream come true," she admitted. "It's also much more different than I'd imagined. I have an improper amount of freedom, and being away from the home makes me feel guilty."

She was grateful for the permission to do as she pleased, though. Some of the Thanes of Skyrim got comfortable with their new office and ended up staying home most of the time.

Aela stared up at the leaves above them, her expression sad. "Do you not want to see me?"

Lydia gasped. "No! I mean yes, I do want to see you. I feel guilty because here I am, having the time of my life, and if someone breaks in –"

A kiss silenced her.

Lydia melted into her embrace and sighed as Aela drew back from the kiss and enveloped her in her arms.

"That's how I feel about it," Aela said.

She smiled and peered into her eyes. "I agree, then. I can't waste time worrying when there's something – someone – wonderful right before me. We've seen each other twice, and I have a connection with you that I haven't had with anyone else."

"Good," Aela smiled. "It's settled, then. Together?"

"Together."

Lydia chuckled, scooting close enough to feel Aela's heart hammering in her chest. She hadn't realized how nervous Aela was, but perhaps, she didn't have much experience with matters of the heart, given the fact that she was so busy.

Mehra was correct. She had an opportunity here, and she didn't want to squander it by being too timid.

If the world ended tomorrow, then Lydia wanted to be satisfied with today.

* * *

It actually worked. With two people casting restoration, the Orc managed to survive relatively unscathed from the extractor. Mehra demonstrated the device on the dead Altmer, first, so they would take their casting seriously. As necromancers, they found the blood aspect of the Dwemer device to be fascinating. They also had a way to cleanse the tool to prevent the Orc from getting sick from getting stabbed with it after it had been in a bunch of corpses.

When the collection was done, one of the necromancers pointed at their dead friend and asked Mehra if she was going to do anything with "that", as well as the dead Stormcloak face down in the half-melted snow.

Absolutely not.

With each side getting what they wanted – Mehra had blood; they had their lives – the group parted amicably. Strange as it was, she at least had a dinner party story.

A Telvanni dinner party story, really. Nobody else would get it or find it entertaining.

Satisfied with the outcome, Mehra walked across the water back toward Septimus' outpost. She stopped outside the rough, wooden door leading into his cave and sucked in a breath. This was going to be bad for him; the Heart of Lorkhan absolutely wasn't in that lockbox.

Steeling herself, Mehra opened the door, stepped inside, and called out to Septimus. She heard scrambling below as she began to descend the slippery walkway to the bottom of the cave. When she stopped at the bottom, Septimus approached her with wild eyes.

"Incredible," he said. "It is finally time. Give it. I will make the solution."

Not wanting anything to touch the nasty cave floor, Mehra took her pack from her back and swung it around to her front. She fished the extractor out of her bag, and Septimus all but yanked the device from her hand. As he busied himself at a filthy alchemical stand in the corner, Mehra drew in a breath.

"Septimus, there's something I wanted to discuss with you," she said.

He grunted.

"I don't think the Heart of Lorkhan is in there," Mehra said. "For one, it's not physically possible; the Heart is much bigger than the box."

"The box is bigger on the inside."

She didn't know how to reply to that.

Septimus turned from the stand with the extractor in his hands, and approached the door.

"Septimus," she sighed. "I saw the Heart disappear when I killed Dagoth Ur. I presume severing the magical connection between it and the Tools meant that it was no longer bound to this plane."

She removed Keening from its place at her side and held it out for him. Septimus stopped what he was doing, turned to her, and gave her an odd look.

"You," Septimus said. "You truly are insane. Poor creature. Convincing blade, though. Tuning device- examine later if this – well the tuner is a trinket in comparison."

Mehra opened her mouth to say something, but ended up sighing in defeat. She'd let him have it, she guessed; she knew she was right about the Heart. Knowing what could happen if a mortal found the Heart of Lorkhan made her glad that she was correct.

Septimus turned back to the box with the extractor, pushed the large needle into the hole on the box, and injected the blood into the lock. With a loud groan, the cube's door unfolded in a complex, geometric design to form a stairway inward.

Mehra saw many Dwemer mechanical devices in her day, but this was by far one of the most fascinating.

She winced as Septimus charged ahead, not waiting for the passage to finish opening. Mehra followed behind reluctantly and winced again as she heard him gasp in surprise.

"What's this?" he said. "It's just a book."

Hermaeus Mora wanted that book.

"Well, I'm sure it's not just any book," Mehra called out.

She walked down the corridor to see Septimus standing in front of a pedestal.

"I can see the world beyond," he mumbled. "It's there, burning in my mind."

As Septimus reached out to touch the book, a flash of light blinded Mehra. Blinking, she regained her sight only to see Septimus turn to ash before her very eyes.

A chill ran down her spine. A dark mist formed behind the pedestal.

The eyes returned. Hermaeus Mora was here.

"Well done," he chuckled. "I knew you were up to the task. You are a doer. Now, let's chat."

Nothing about how he just casually killed a man right in front of her, but she didn't expect that to mean anything to him.

Hermaeus Mora laughed. "Do not act as if you haven't done the same, mortal."

Mehra nodded. He knew what she was thinking and was, again, correct.

"What would you like to discuss?" she asked.

A tentacle lazily drifted through the air. Mehra knew without a doubt that he could have just grabbed this book himself, regardless of the lockbox. There was a reason why he wanted her to get it, instead.

"This Alduin situation has gotten out of control," he explained. "While I have the resources to dispose of the problem myself, I'd prefer someone with loyalty to do the job."

A cloud of dark mist began to form around him, and he sighed, perhaps in an attempt at sounding more like a mortal.

"We all would, little Azura," Hermaeus Mora said. "I've been watching you off and on since the day you were born. We all have, to some degree; Azura was so proud that she couldn't help but brag."

Mehra nodded quietly. That was an interesting bit of information.

He motioned toward the strange book with a tentacle.

"You are worthy now," he said. "And, you are loyal to my kin. This is why I give you my Oghma Infinium. You will respect my knowledge and use it properly."

His – his –

Oghma Infinium.

Mehra's legs buckled and she landed roughly on her backside. All of the air in her lungs escaped.

Hermaeus Mora chuckled. "That's a good reaction. I like that one, little mortal. Do you appreciate this gift?"

She finally found her breath. "I – I have no words. You – your priestess told me. Oh, you've been planning this for a while, and – this is the most incredible thing."

"Inarticulate and genuine," he said. "I enjoy this, mortal. Sometimes, I like surprises, even ones of a good nature."

The darkness lifted the book from the pedestal and brought it down to where she sat on the floor of the lockbox. Trembling, Mehra reached out and took it from the swirling void.

"Choose a section to read," Hermaeus Mora instructed. "You are permitted only one: Might, Shadow, or Spirit. Make a wise choice, Incarnate; the book cannot be read a second time. I do not allow such things."

She had to pick one.

Mehra already studied magic. While she didn't think she knew everything there was to know about magic, she had ages to study it.

She also knew a lot about how to be a warrior, from the mere fact that Nerevar's soul resided inside her. Mehra knew how to effectively use any weapon, armor, or method of defense which used brute strength.

Stealth was something she worked on a bit, but never quite got the hang of. When she was part of the Morag Tong, subtlety eluded her almost entirely. She'd walk into the place where a mark was, kill them brutally in plain sight while people screamed, then show the legal writ of assassination to the guards that came running. When a time came where she needed to be actually stealthy, Mehra relied on potions, magic, or enchantments. Muffle and chameleon spells were her biggest tools.

It wasn't until she met Erich that she discovered a completely different way of doing things. He stopped her from tromping through ruins with a massive fireball waiting in her hand. Erich climbed walls, crept across crumbling walkways, and wriggled into tight spaces that a man that large had no business trying to fit into. He was as silent and lethal as a panther.

She was always jealous of how agile and quiet he was. In a strange way, he made her feel manly and brutish.

Mehra turned her gaze down to the book and looked at the mortal-skin cover. Pale human leather lay stitched next to a Dunmer gray, neighbored by golden Altmer.

The skins on this book were all equal. The book could make her equal to him – to the man she was inextricably stitched to at the soul.

Mehra thought of what Hermaeus Mora said about Alduin. He wanted her to handle it. His allies wanted her to handle it. She knew she had to, regardless of if the Daedra wanted her to get rid of Alduin.

Did it suit her purpose to be even? Fighting dragons was different than sneaking into Oblivion and undermining the plans of the enemy.

Mehra needed the strongest ranged attacks she could get in order to do combat with dragons most effectively. She needed to be able to cast to make herself stronger and faster in order to dodge the shockingly fast dragons. Sneaking, climbing, and stabbing someone or breaking their neck would be nearly useless against them.

Realizing that now wasn't the time to pursue a passion, Mehra opened the book to the Path of Spirit.

She scanned the first few words in the book, blinked, and shook her head. Mehra wasn't sure what she read, but it wasn't a sentence. Confused, she leaned in to get a closer look.

That was when he grabbed her.

A mist exploded out of the book, finding a way to pour in through her eyes. She saw the mist, then blackness. Somehow, she wasn't afraid.

Slowly, the mist took form as a swirling sea of magical knowledge – a deep blue, magical color that had a depth so far that Mehra knew she could travel down into it forever and still not find the bottom.

She found herself quite far down in the ocean of knowledge. Hermaeus Mora pulled her deeper.

Conjuration – now, she could summon daedra without a talisman. She could summon a high ranking daedra's weapon to borrow.

Deeper. She could use telekinesis to move a person. She learned a mystic ritual lost to time that could divine fates. She could cast a single detect spell that included undead, ghosts, and the living.

A tentacle dragged the ankle of her spirit down further still, where the knowledge of how to chameleon to a near-invisible degree presented itself to her once again. The secret to an even more powerful spell gifted itself to her. Because she spent time working on how she interacted with others, she could – unethically – cast a spell to make them fight on her behalf. She could cast a powerful illusion of a sound within the mind of an opponent, distracting them from their fight.

Restoration – now, she could save herself from death by instinct, by the sheer force of her will.

Restoration and Alteration blended together in a magnificent way to finally give her the solution to her problem. She could cast a spell to fortify her own magicka reserve, then use the gained power to make herself stronger, faster, smarter, friendlier – anything she wanted. Along with it came the knowledge of a powerful shield which she didn't need to use her arms in order to keep it going.

They did not reach the bottom. While she couldn't see how far it was from her, the sea of knowledge was so deep here that it was nearly overwhelming.

The stillness down here was eerie. It was a depth of knowledge that few discovered. Hermaeus Mora said nothing, but she felt him eagerly impart the knowledge of Xarxes on her. A shift in the current brought a startling amount of heat with it.

Mehra wasn't sure how she knew, but the warmth was fire, her preferred element of destruction magic. She was one with the fire – imbued with it. Whenever she needed it, fire would come to her aid and act as a flaming shield against attacks.

The fireball spell that the sea taught her was powerful enough to level a building. There was a strange serenity in the knowledge that she would only use this fearsome spell if it were absolutely warranted. She would use it against Alduin. She would not use it against innocents.

"Good; you are worthy of the knowledge."

Hermaeus Mora's voice startled her, and she felt him dragging her soul back up to the surface. This knowledge was an incredible help. She knew the secret to the conundrum she had with altering her speed and agility while being able to cast. If she thought it – willed it hard enough – she could make it happen with the sheer force of her will.

An amused chuckle interrupted her thoughts.

"Yes, that is correct," Hermaeus Mora said. "Now, I want some information. My Sister has been coy about it, and I do not suffer anyone to have knowledge which I do not have. Tell me about Erich Heartfire."

It was spoken so casually, as if they were in a wagon going for a ride into town. Mehra shuddered and winced. She didn't want to answer that; it wasn't her place. Still, she felt something crawling up into her brain and she knew with certainty that even if she resisted, he'd have his information.

The probe picked through her mind from the past forward. Fragments of Mehra's past flashed through her mind like lightning: the first time she met Erich, their travels, their first kiss, helping him with his bad leg, all the dozens of times she denied him, and the fight over his membership in the Dark Brotherhood that led to her storming off to Akavir.

"Was quite a secret," Hermaeus Mora mused. "Well, for a mortal, that is. Quite mundane to us."

She caught an air of boredom as dozens of memories of jail and her travels through Skyrim after her release flipped by at a near-blinding speed, until Pelagius' hipbone showed up.

"Ech, you talked to him?" he snorted, his disgust and disdain evident.

At the mention of the word 'him', a flash of an image of Erich in his full splendor appeared.

"What?!"

Hermaeus Mora uttered a word that hurt terribly – a word that sounded like the grumbling of a volcano. Mehra didn't want to know this word; it was horrifying.

"Show me more, mortal," he hissed.

Mehra had no choice but to comply, and she'd do nearly anything to not hear that word again. So, she showed him Erich – Sheogorath – in the full extent of his true form which he showed her.

The anger that Hermaeus Mora exuded was palpable, along with a trace of anxiety.

"I would be fine with this," he grumbled, "if it didn't mean my mortal enemy were loose once again. If parts of the mortal remain with this new being then he – he must cooperate with me. No, he will of his own mind; he always wanted his elders' approval."

Mehra shrank back in fear. She didn't want anyone getting hurt over this; it wasn't Erich's fault.

"Oh, don't worry, Little Azura," he said. "I quite liked him. In fact, I collect his former kind. I am certain we will get along perfectly, especially since we have a mutual distaste toward Jyggalag."

The probe loosened on her mind.

"The foolish girl thinks she can lie with Sheogorath," Hermaeus Mora chuckled.

How did he know that? He didn't touch that memory, as far as she knew.

"Ah, I know many things," he said. "I will leave you now. Watch your mouth."

Something crawled down from her sinus and into her throat, causing her to gag. Choking, Mehra heaved and clawed at her mouth as the dark haze around her eyes disappeared to be replaced with tears.

As the tentacle emerged from her mouth, she wished that she hadn't gotten her eyesight back so soon.

The tentacle slipped out, and with it, a black mist that tasted of brine followed soon after. Mehra lurched forward and retched.

Hermaeus Mora sighed. "Well, disappointing, but I am pleased that you did not bite me as hm – let's call him the 'Eternal Champion' did. Your friend, Heartfire, however, didn't go through your theatrics."

He chuckled to himself and materialized in front of her. "Then again, his kind do not gag."

Mehra clutched her sides, shuddered, and held back another retch. She didn't want to even ask.

"Knowing what I do," he said, "I am pleased with your choice. You lacked Spirit. Your timidness would have been your undoing. Quite interesting, how each of you three chose different paths. There is a completeness in it all."

She sat back and gathered her breath. The Oghma Infinium was nowhere to be seen.

Since Hermaeus Mora took knowledge from her, she wondered if he'd indulge her in answering a question.

She knew Erich when he was mortal. Sure, he was different, now, but Mehra didn't think it should have made as much of a difference as it did.

"Why am I so afraid of him?" she asked.

A chuckle came from the swirling mist in front of her. Perhaps, it was a stupid question.

It was dumb, really; Mehra knew that a mortal and a daedra were entirely different.

"Because you cannot comprehend us," he replied. "Mortals think of how far the stars are, the depth of the oceans, the ever-winding distant planes of existence. You think of these things – of us, of our contrary and perfect nature – and are filled with fear of that which you cannot understand nor fathom."

Hermaeus Mora paused and waved a tentacle in the air.

"Touch him if you dare, mortal. Your terror pleases us."

Her heart fell into the pit of her stomach as Hermaeus Mora faded out of the mortal plane. She knew that she'd dare again, because she just couldn't stay away from danger.

Mehra had a lot to think about, but now wasn't the time. She had to get back to Paarthurnax with the Elder Scroll.

As she stood on shaking legs, Mehra swore under her breath. It didn't occur to her to ask Hermaeus Mora or Septimus how she could read the scroll without being blinded. Well, there was nothing else that could be done about it, she supposed.

It was time to see if the plan that Paarthurnax made would really work.

Mehra hoped that it would, for everyone's sake.


	40. Chapter 40

A/n:  **SEXUAL CONTENT WARNING- section 3.** It's in the middle of the section so if you are a skipper, you'll need to dodge around it. Sorry; it didn't make sense to have a cutoff before or after it. I hope you understand.

(Also, I think I'm slowly coming to terms with the fact that the backstory I have for Neloth is in the realm of 'not plausible due to new canon'.)

* * *

_You're really good. Maybe the best. And that's why it's so hard to get better. But you just keep trying, because that's the way you are._

* * *

Zafirbel Bay. Beginning of 2E.

Home.

His city that he built with his own hands. Sadrith Mora became everything he could have hoped for. It was the hub of House Telvanni on Vvardenfell, and a place where the most enlightened of Dunmer minds met. It was no wonder that the House elected it to be the seat of the Council.

Neloth's accomplishments made some jealous. The petty backstabbing and attempts at undermining his work were met with much more clever retaliation.

That was, until someone went too far. Death was too good for Gothren.

The were vicious rivals; always had been, ever since they earned a joint apprenticeship with Master Fyr. Whether it was a measure of one-upmanship or some backhanded attempt at gaining power over the other, each successive attempt at destroying the other became increasingly dangerous.

Neloth should have known it would come to this. He shouldn't have left his keep – not for a minute – and not even to retrieve the fabled Mehrunes' Razor.

The Razor was his now, of course; anything he put his hand to was done. It was a fine weapon made of dark, glistening ebony, with a beautiful, jagged design. The weapon itself banished the souls of those slain with it to the Deadlands, where Mehrunes Dagon could do with them as he pleased. It would be a fitting end for those who dared to oppose him.

But, what was the point of such a thing when he'd lost that which he valued most?

Jealous that he'd acquired the Razor through the power of his intelligence and careful research, Gothren made a move against him that went well beyond a mere rivalry. Neloth already knew that the House would do nothing in response to Gothren's actions. House Telvanni stayed out of personal affairs, no matter how serious.

The letter which informed him of the dreadful news lay in his breast pocket. Though Neloth couldn't feel it, he was ever conscious of the slip of paper's presence as if it were a pin. There was the accident, years ago, and the plague before then. There were more understandable ones from childbirth. He thought that maybe, with how successful the city was, and Morrowind at large, the seventh one would be the one 'for good'.

It wasn't to be. Gothren sent assassins to his tower, who put Neloth's entire family to the sword. His wife was dead, as were his sons and daughters.

It was an act of war. And if Gothren wanted a war, he'd have one.

Neloth had military experience. He also had Mehrunes' Razor, with which he would end his rival once and for all.

He cast his gaze down to the jagged, ebony dagger at his side. He'd gift Gothren's soul to Mehrunes Dagon, along with those of anyone else who dared to stand in defense of Gothren.

"Lord Master, you must eat."

Neloth looked up to see one of the lizard slaves offering him a simple bowl of saltrice. Shaking his head, he stared out the cabin window to the speck of Sadrith Mora on the horizon.

"My rage alone sustains me," he replied.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the creature bow lower. It was a new acquisition, sold a few times. It was set for execution and Neloth got a bargain. What was its name again?

"How will my Lord gut the fat one if he is weakened by hunger?" it asked.

Neloth snorted. "I know what you're trying to do. I suppose I shall humor you."

He turned back to the slave and took the bowl of rice. Sighing, he sat down on one of the floor cushions, opened the ledger sitting nearby, and searched through it as he forced himself to eat. Page after page of acquisitions for his household haunted him – primers for the children, exquisite clothing for his wife – until he came across the purchase papers for the new slave. Grateful for the distraction, Neloth opened the papers and glanced through them.

This was a third generation slave – very valuable. Male. Named "Julasei". Odd name. The reason for execution wasn't mentioned; maybe it was a stubborn thing. Neloth was certainly more stubborn and would have compliance.

"Julasei," he mumbled. "Were you born with this name?"

The creature hadn't stopped in his bowing.

Oh, Neloth forgot to dismiss him.

"Yes, Master," the Argonian replied.

He shrugged. "No sense in changing it, then. Go on; we make landfall soon. The servants will require aid when they offload the cargo."

The slave stood and bowed at the waist again. As he walked away, Neloth eyed the dagger once again.

"I should challenge him to a duel," he mused.

The slave stopped and turned to him, a wicked look spread across his face.

"A cowardly weakling sends assassins to kill babies," it said. "The talk I have heard – it angers me, knowing what happened."

Neloth closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. There was something about this dagger that made him desire to spill blood with it. He knew he ought to be careful, but at the moment, the feeling the Razor gave him was one which suited his mood perfectly.

If the blade intended to possess him with destructive desires, Neloth didn't particularly care.

Well, he really ought to. Controlling such weapons was the stuff of the greatest wizards, and Neloth was among them. It wouldn't be a problem; it was merely that he and the blade were of similar minds, at the moment.

A sharp pain bloomed behind his eyes. Wincing, he brought his hand to his head. He should have eaten sooner. Yes; hunger was the cause.

He was a Telvanni Master Wizard. No mere weapon could influence him. He imagined he could even touch the fabled Neb-Crescen for a brief moment, if he cast the proper spells. Neloth shook his head and opened his eyes.

"I will destroy him," he said.

The Argonian bowed. "This one is on your side."

Neloth regarded the creature for a moment and pursed his lips.

"Good," he said. "That is your job. Now, go on."

With that, the slave disappeared from the cabin, leaving Neloth alone with his thoughts. As Neloth continued to eat, he felt some sort of presence with him, and briefly wondered if it were the spirits of his family coming to see him one last time.

Neloth cast every detection spell he knew in an attempt to see, knowing full well that he was being a fool. Their spirits were gone to Aetherius, and that was that.

The room grew warmer and he tugged at the collar of his robe. At least he'd have the sea breeze to experience, soon; the ship's cabin was damnably hot. Rolling up his sleeves, Neloth stopped at the strange occurrence of gooseflesh on his arms.

Great. Was he feverish as well?

Shuddering, he grabbed a nearby pitcher of water – lukewarm swill – and poured himself a glass.

He swore he felt something by his side. Perhaps he really was delusional and feverish. There was no evidence of said presence other than a nonsensical, animal impulse.

Much to his relief, a knock sounded at the door. Neloth quickly swallowed the water he poured and stood.

"Enter."

The door swung open, and a retainer bowed in the doorway.

"Great Master," she said. "We have made landfall. A cohort of guards awaits to escort you to your tower."

Neloth sighed and put his hand on the hilt of the Razor. "It is not necessary; I have this weapon."

The retainer bowed lower.

"Certainly, Master," she replied. "The guards are merely a display of might."

Ah, the honeyed words of a retainer eager to flatter their Master.

Shaking his head, Neloth followed the retainer out of the cabin and onto the deck of the ship. Awaiting him on the dock was a group of Sadrith Mora's finest, as well as his steward. The poor thing looked exhausted, and it was no wonder. She was getting up there in years, and, having never married, the Lady of the Tower and her children were a delight to her.

No more, he supposed. Rage boiled up inside him. Gothren would pay for this.

A hot, salty breeze blew by, further agitating his already insufferable state. Wiping his brow, Neloth trudged across the deck and met his steward on the docks.

"Demivah," he said. "We're going to prepare the whole of the city for war."

She scrambled to keep up with him. "War?"

"What else is there to do?" Neloth spat.

Demivah sighed and nodded. "Of course, Master. This cannot be left alone. I-it was horrible, Master. I cannot imagine your heartache."

Her eyes welled with tears, and while he expected himself to do likewise, his rage only increased. His family died before; this wasn't new. What was new was how it happened.

"I am enraged," he admitted. "There are no words which can describe the power of my anger."

She wiped at her eyes. "Of course, Master. It is only natural. Perhaps, an appeal to Lord Vivec–"

"I'll kill Gothren myself," Neloth hissed. "I'll tear him apart and send his soul straight to Oblivion!"

"Y-yes, Master Neloth."

They continued on in silence. There was nothing else which could be said.

As they walked through the city, people everywhere turned to look at the commotion. Some put their hands over their hearts and bowed, while others turned away in pity. The whole thing was irritating; Neloth wasn't an object of pity.

The guards escorted him through the city, and as they stopped in front of Tel Naga, Neloth ordered the captain to round up a militia. It was only after then that he saw them.

Hundreds of flowers and lit candles lined the walkway leading up to the tower. Still others left children's toys, ladies' trinkets – little offerings for the afterlife. There were even a few offerings left for the guards and slaves who died attempting to protect his family.

Neloth drew in a shuddering breath and the scent of funerary incense nearly overwhelmed him. Oh, his heart! He had everything set up to ensure their safety, but still, he was left devastated and alone. Everything hurt. He was so, so –

His watery gaze landed on the fabled dagger strapped to his side. He was livid. Until the day when he could gut the fat coward, he'd live on fantasies of torturing him with this very dagger.

Steeling himself, Neloth trudged up the walkway, ignoring all the offerings for his late family. The guards at the door to the massive tower snapped a salute as he blew past them.

Their rooms. He needed to see where they –

Unwilling to think the ending to the sentence, Neloth cast levitate and worked his way up to the living quarters. He looked through each of the children's rooms, noting how thoroughly they'd been cleaned – and how they looked prepared for each child to return.

At the end of the hall lay the master chambers. Holding his breath, Neloth opened the doors and peered in.

He wasn't sure what he expected; it looked the same as it always had. Closing the door behind him, he trudged his way over to the bed that he shared with his wife and fell onto it face-first.

The linens were clean. Her smell was gone.

Vela was gone. She returned to dust.

How many times could one man suffer such loss? Each time, he felt a part of himself die along with them. It was too much.

These attachments were dangerous and costly. The worst part was that they gave his opponents a way to get to him.

So be it. He was done with desires of the heart and flesh. These were trifling things.

There was only power, the dagger, and destruction.

* * *

The weight of traveling with an Elder Scroll was heavy, both in a literal and metaphorical sense. It felt like a log in her bag, and she knew that if anyone saw it, they'd report her immediately to – someone; she wasn't sure who. And, given that Winterhold and Ivarstead were in Stormcloak territory, the whole thing didn't sit well with her.

Mehra didn't relax until she found herself in the pine forest wilderness to the north of Ivarstead. The path she took looked like a deer path that travelers turned into a horse trail over time. It was perfectly quiet, here; there were no guards patrolling it, and the path, though uphill most of the way, was peaceful and a direct way to Ivarstead.

She glanced to the side as footsteps sounded through the forest nearby. A familiar, out of fashion figure stepped out from behind a rocky outcropping and Mehra couldn't help but smile. She was wondering when he'd show up; he had a knack for doing so after something major happened.

"Hello, Erich," Mehra called.

Erich gave her a smile, stepped out onto the path, and waited for her to reach him. He was dressed the same as always, and Mehra wondered if he did it for her benefit. Sheogorath was known to appear as a wealthy gentleman, and he seemed like the type to be bizarrely fashionable.

It was like Erich to do the same, now that she thought of it. Though he did seem to prefer to wear more unassuming clothing with his fame.

If ridiculously tight pants were considered unassuming, that was. That was one habit he hadn't lost.

"I figured I'd check in on you," he said. "You like this way?"

Erich motioned to the thin, uphill path of compacted, dusty earth.

Mehra shrugged. "It's quiet and direct."

"We traveled this path to get to Whiterun," Erich said. "Whenever we had to take a wagon, Da grumbled the whole time about the short path not being wide enough. But as you know, it's just not possible."

She nodded in agreement. If this path were widened, they'd need to bring pickaxes into the mountain. It wasn't really worth it, with a flatter, wider road to the east.

Mehra stopped in front of him and wrapped her arms around his waist. She missed traveling with him; he always had a story to tell about the road they were on and the landmarks around it. And if she got cold, blood of the north made him extra warm. Now that he was a daedra, he was even warmer.

Erich wrapped his arms around her and gently lifted her in his embrace. After a few seconds, he put her down, let go, and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, armor and all.

He motioned further up the path. "There was a fishery up there," he said. "We loaded up the mule with grains and produce and traded for fresh fish. It was like hell trying to keep the coursing hounds from following us. I raised them, so they were my boys. Ma and Lissa had to tie them up in the barn. You could hear them howling for miles – the hounds, not the ladies."

Mehra snorted and chuckled under her breath.

"Tell me more," she said. "I didn't have a normal childhood."

Erich laughed. "If a switching with a willow until you bleed is normal, sure."

She winced. Mehra hadn't forgotten that, but it wasn't necessarily what she meant in regards to 'normal'. Perhaps, it would have been better for Erich to not have had a father.

"I know what you meant," he chuckled. "Family stuff. Not orphanage stuff. Anyway, we'd get alewife and Ma salted it for the winter. The guy raised salmon, too, but Da insisted it was too expensive. Didn't stop him from getting a dried piece for himself for the road."

That sounded about right. Erich's father was honestly not a man Mehra cared to have ever met.

"What's an alewife?" she asked.

He looked surprised for a second and quickly shook it off. "Freshwater herring. Herring is – it's a big deal to Nords. Well, herring and whitefish. It's salted, preserved, aged, or put in lye. Depends."

Mehra stopped in her tracks. "Lye? Why haven't I heard of this?"

"Because it's wasteful to give it to foreigners who will hate it," he laughed. "Or, I dunno – maybe you have had it. Doubtful though, since you'd probably remember the smell. It tends to be a holiday tradition."

She drew in a breath. The Companions would probably have her try some, at some point.

"Can't be as bad as my first scrib jelly toast," she mumbled. "It was so, so sour. And bitter. It tasted like the leavings of an ale brewery. I don't recommend that, by the way."

"Describe the taste to me," Erich said.

Mehra closed her eyes. "Tastes like being homeless and cold."

"A bitter taste indeed," he sighed. "I remember it. In New Sheoth, I can't get some of them to come inside no matter what I say, and I prefer free will over orders in decisions of that manner. If they're going to die, though, the guards force them inside. It's my last resort, of course."

She agreed with the sentiment, but Mehra wasn't entirely sure that she would have ended up doing likewise if she had his powers.

Power was corrupting, and it always had a way of ruining her. In fact, she wondered when her new knowledge would become too much for her and turn her into a wicked person once again.

They continued on in silence, with Erich turning every so often to give her an odd look. After a few minutes, Mehra opened her mouth to ask him what was going on, but he said something before she could get the words out.

"He did it, didn't he?"

She pursed her lips and frowned. "I'm sorry?"

"Your eyes," he chuckled. "I can tell he's been there- Hermaeus Mora. Right in through the eyes. You read it."

Mehra nodded. "Sure did. He was surprisingly nice."

The silence that followed had her worried. Finally, Erich chose to speak.

"A wolf is only friendly after it has been fed," he grumbled.

Mehra sucked in a breath. "So, should I be worried?"

He turned his gaze to the sky in silence as they continued walking. Mehra always wondered what was going on in his mind, even when he was mortal.

"You should always be worried with us," he concluded. "Being friendly is how we collect mortals."

She swallowed a wave of nausea. "You don't think he'll take me, do you?"

He seemed to consider it for a moment, then shrugged.

"Not sure what he'd gain, angering Azura like that," he said. "But he takes an interest those who seek out knowledge. If he got to Neloth –"

Mehra swore under her breath.

"Yeah," Erich grumbled. "Though his grudge against the Skaal has had him stealing Nords consistently since long before they were even Atmorans. He likes them a lot more."

She should have been more careful, but truthfully, she didn't know what else she could have done differently.

"So, which section did you read?" he asked.

She sighed, turning her gaze down to the road.

"Spirit."

Erich nodded. "I wanted to read that part so much," he said. "Was it what you wanted?"

Mehra shook her head and an unexpected arm wrapped around her shoulders.

"Figured so," he sighed. "Got to be practical with even the gifts we choose, right?"

"Damn if that isn't the truth," Mehra said. "I was very jealous of your stealth skills."

He gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. "And I wanted to be a great wizard. But I was going into Oblivion gates almost weekly, and it kept getting more and more dangerous each time. I needed to get in and out with minimal detection. If reading the Path of Shadow was my one good decision in life, then I'll let it stand."

Mehra leaned into him, resting her head against his side.

"You must have done many more good things to deserve the reward of godhood," she mused.

"It was Sithis, dear," he replied. "He noticed me. I reckon I was about as awful as you were."

Mehra laughed out loud.

"No," she said, "I remember a well-loved guy who got a smile from everyone when he rode into any city or town in the province. The whole thing made my head spin."

"I've always been a bit of Sheogorath," he shrugged. "A bit, hm – two-faced. Purple or yellow; always had trouble picking one."

She didn't know if that was better or worse than being outright evil like she was.

"Well, you were nice to me," Mehra said.

"I've always had my favorite people. Gods help anyone who pissed me off, though."

This was true; he was not a man to be crossed. If his fist had to do any of the talking, the person was done-for.

Erich glanced down the road both ways and stopped in place. Up ahead was a clearing and the ruins of a building. He seemed to think for a moment before motioning for her to follow him.

"Without knowing what will happen when you read the Elder Scroll at the Time-Wound, it's best that I test your skills, now."

Mehra followed along and sighed. "Yes, you're right."

This time, she'd make sure she wasn't doing it for the sake of her ego.

They sparred once before, and a friendly match quickly turned into blood sport. She remembered him laughing in the face of her fire spells and charging straight through them, shouting that Oblivion was hotter. She sensed magic coming from him and didn't know what he was up to until his sparking fist nearly missed her face. Erich was as quick as she, and their swordplay turned into a flurry of parries and dodging. Mehra had anger on her side. Erich, on the other hand, was as cold as ice, and his serenity in the face of a fight spurred her into a rage.

When they finally stopped, she stared down a boot covered in climbing spikes a hair's breadth away from her face, while her sword rested against his neck. At the time, she argued that she won; blade defeated the boot, period. Mehra remembered his cocky smirk as he permitted her to win the match, and in hindsight, she knew full well that he couldn't care less about the bragging rights of who won.

Erich wanted to know if there was an equal challenger, and he found one in what was really a draw.

They didn't spar since. It absolutely ate her alive that there was someone who could have done her job against Dagoth Ur, had the circumstances been different. The prophecy was what made her special.

Mehra followed him off the path to a clearing on the other side of the ruined, stone building. She stared him down again, knowing that she was far outmatched this time.

"It was a draw, last time," she said.

Erich laughed. "Aye, it was. Figured you'd come around someday. Who knew it would take that long, though?"

He was handsome like that – dark charcoal, skin-tight minotaur leather armor, green cloak, dark weapons strapped to his side. But there was something about his smile that always caught her off guard – something that made her forget to breathe. It had nothing to do with the fact that he was a daedra now, nor the fact that she found him handsome. Mehra had the suspicion that it was something mushy and sentimental– something that made her squirm at the notion.

"I was stubborn," she admitted. "I couldn't stand not being the best without equal."

"You are now," he smiled. "But you've got to be more than the best. Seems this time, you've got to be better than yourself."

She frowned. "I don't follow."

"The you that is holding you back," Erich said. "Humility is always a good lesson, of course, but is it humility that has held you back? Or, is it something else? Heart? Drive? Pride, even? You know that 'good enough' never suffices in situations like ours."

"You're always a philosopher," Mehra sighed.

He chuckled and shook his head. "Now, I know you're not an anti-intellectual. I'd just like to see where you're at. This path of destruction could end up at the doors of Oblivion, you know. And we quite like this plane, as well. I doubt any of my special skills could help you; can't kick a dragon fifty different ways, and I doubt you could sneak up on Alduin and jump him. Maybe, the Finger of the Mountain–"

"I'll pass on that."

"Enemies Explode?"

Mehra blinked. "Is – is that a real spell?"

"A Delphine Jend exclusive, even!" Erich laughed.

"Who?"

"Mages Guild," he said.

She nodded. "Well, I imagine I know something like it."

"Probably so," he said. "Regardless, give me your best spell. That way, you'll know what to expect from it."

She blinked and Erich was hundreds of paces away from her, standing on the other side of the river beyond the clearing. Waving his arm above his head, Erich signaled for her to cast at him.

"Don't hold back!" he called.

Though she had no clue how he moved in such a way, she waved back to signal that she was ready. Mehra summoned fire to her combined hands. She'd hit him with her best, then cast strength and speed to get to him quickly with her sword. Hopefully, she'd catch him off guard.

Mehra unleashed her spell. Immediately after, she cast her attribute spells and charged forward, not waiting to see if her spell would hit. Before she had time to react, she ran chest-first into something large and heavy. Her vision faded to gray and she fell back with a wheeze. Vaguely, she heard muttered swearing as a pair of arms encircled her to keep her from collapsing.

" – wasn't specific enough," Erich grumbled.

His voice was directly in front of her. Erich held her steady while Mehra gasped for air. It felt like running into a rock.

As she regained her breath, Mehra realized with a start that she felt as if she hadn't cast any spells. Blinking, she turned her gaze to the area around them and saw no evidence that any fire had been cast, let alone her powerful spell.

"How?"

Mehra didn't know what else to say, other than 'how?'.

"What do you mean?" Erich asked.

Was she hallucinating? Did she actually cast that spell?

Mehra leaned to the side to see past Erich and blinked at the spot he once occupied in the distance. No; everything was as it had been. If she hadn't cast that spell, then was Erich really in front of her the whole time?

"I like that one," Erich said. "Very powerful. The augmentation is good, too; I imagine Alduin is the fastest of them."

Mehra swayed on her feet. He was too quick to brush off what happened.

"You did something," she mumbled.

He shrugged. "Well, yes. But the question is if you did something, not me."

Mehra decided to drop the matter. He was back to his cryptic Sheogorath stuff, and she knew that asking questions of him would keep leading to a frustrating dead end.

Erich dropped his arms from around her. "There's something else to test, I suppose."

Mehra looked up to ask him what it was, but her breath caught in her throat. He stared at her with undisguised eyes. Terrified of the Void within them, Mehra shrank back in fear. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the ruined building directly behind her.

She was cornered.

"Don't do that," Erich frowned. "You don't think Alduin won't look like that? He eats souls; you're going to see the thousands of them in his eyes."

Mehra shuddered. Even when she talked to Azura, she looked to anywhere other than her eyes. For those she saw, she never looked any of them in the eyes without terror.

"Do it," he ordered. "Look me in the eyes. I swear on the blood that transformed me that I won't harm you."

He sank to his knees so that she could better see him.

"It's alright to be afraid," Erich said. "But, what do you do with it? Do you let that fear control you? Didn't Alduin scare you?"

He was right about that, and Mehra hated it.

Fine. If this was what she had to do then, fine.

Terrified, she stared him in the eyes. Her heart hammered and her stomach clenched in fear. Still, she refused to look away and summoned all her courage to draw closer. Even as Mehra brushed her lips against his, she defiantly stared into the blackened Void imprinted in his eyes. Claws rested against the back of her neck. She leaned in to the pointed claw of a thumb resting against her throat.

It shifted ever so slightly and Mehra knew that had he not moved, she would have slit her own throat on it.

Erich didn't move, even as she kissed him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She didn't usually kiss anyone with her eyes open – creepy thing to do – but this –

Why in the world was this doing something for her? She was turning into one of those 'weird' girls, wasn't she?

Unnerved more of herself than by Erich, Mehra backed away.

Erich blinked and his eyes returned to normal.

"Well, that was a different way of doing it," he shrugged. "But, I think you've got it. Let's get you on your way."

He stood and began to walk toward the path as if nothing happened. Confused at the sudden change, Mehra furrowed her brow and stepped in line next to him.

"We didn't do much, though," she said.

If she were honest, she was in the mood for more – a different kind of more, but more nonetheless. Mehra wondered just what in the world was going on with her and chalked it up to the fact that ruins, necromancer lairs, undead, Dwemer machines, and bandit camps were blasé as far as adventure and thrills were concerned.

He sighed. "I don't think fighting me one on one is going to help you. I'm not a dragon, and even if I shapeshifted into one, I still wouldn't think like one."

"You're correct," she said.

"It looks like you've got the skills you need for the specific situation you're up against," Erich said. "A one-on-one against a cheating half-god the size of a normal guy is completely different from a dragon who existed before time."

He was correct on that one, too, but both answers were quite obvious.

"You uh," he mumbled, "you seem to have a danger fetish."

Also obvious.

"Change of subject," Mehra grumbled.

Erich snickered and she fought the urge to slap his arm. She did need boundaries of some sort, after all. As she recalled, he was supposed to be the deviant. She was not.

"I have something for you," she said. "The ruins that contained the Elder Scroll also had something interesting in there. Well – I don't know. Maybe you'll find it nostalgic or something."

Mehra stopped and shifted her pack to the side.

"Is it the book?" he asked.

She looked up to reply and saw the alchemist's journal in his hands. Shaking her head, Mehra shouldered her pack with a sigh. No matter how many times she experienced something like that, she didn't think she'd ever get used to it.

"Yes, nosy guy, it is," she said.

Erich opened the book and began to read it as they walked. After reading the name on the inside cover, he gave the book a sad smile.

"He was a nice guy," he said. "Loved his craft. He treated everyone nicely – none of that 'barbarian' stuff with me."

Erich turned to the page which contained the pressed crimson nirnroot. He grabbed the sample and stared at it for a moment in thought.

"Both sides of the Isles would like this," he mused. "I'll grow it there. Not that Sinderion will ever know; he's up there."

He pushed the sample back in between the pages, closed the book, and motioned up toward Aetherius shining low and orange on the horizon.

Mehra nodded. "Well, the sentiment is nice, if you're still into that sort of thing."

"In this case," he said, "I am. I'll keep this journal in my library with a note in it so hopefully I don't forget. Honestly, I only come to you on more lucid days; it's probably better for you and the mortal plane that I'm not here when I'm chasing my tail."

She agreed with that completely, though she wasn't quite sure what he needed in order to be completely safe around her. Erich mentioned mania and Bliss specifically, but there had to be more than that. There were many facets to his realm. While insanity was a large part of it, there was also a part that emphasized creativity. There were also dedications to unique minds – minds that weren't insane, but those which were simply different.

Sheogorath embodied all these things in varying degrees and at random. Every time he visited her was carefully chosen.

Mehra hoped it was more than sentiment, but didn't want to name what she hoped for. She wondered if he had sentiment toward other things in his past – things that could potentially get her in trouble with him. Figuring she ought to get it over with rather than deal with crippling anxiety over it, Mehra turned to ask him a question.

"Are you still attached to the Dark Brotherhood?"

By the time she worked up the nerve to ask, the book he had in his hands was predictably gone.

Erich tilted his head to the side and shrugged. "Nah. That's not my deal anymore. Besides; last I knew, they completely abandoned the old ways."

"Good. Just checking."

Perhaps, she ought to have asked him before she used that password to go in and slaughter them all earlier that week.

"Why do you ask?" he said. "Do you feel like you're being watched, sometimes? Like – maybe feel like some sort of astral being is watching you?"

What an odd question. Thankfully, she experienced nothing of the sort.

Mehra shook her head. "No; I went into their hideout and slaughtered them all."

"Oh! Well, that is different," Erich chuckled. "Remember what I said about you being a purging tool?"

"Yep," she shrugged. "Don't care, either. I go my own way; always have."

Erich sighed and looked down at the ground.

"I um," he mumbled, "I think I'm a bit responsible for what happened to them eventually. I may have started breaking the traditions."

Mehra's eyes widened in shock. "How so?"

"Well, uh," Erich said, "the Black Hand is meant to be anonymous, for the most part. And certainly, nobody knows who the Listener is. I walked around the Sanctuary and shook hands – and other parts – with nearly everyone."

She barely repressed a laugh. 'Other parts'? Her lack of surprise about the whole thing was truthfully the most humorous part of it all. Mehra wondered how in the world he survived all those long, sexless months with her.

"Anyway, I became a bit of a celebrity," he continued. "More than the Night Mother. And I guess after that, the Listener started becoming more important."

Mehra cast her gaze toward the horizon. Shaded by the trees, the path grew darker by the minute. She cast a simple light spell for her benefit; Erich surely didn't need it.

As her hand dropped to her side, a sly hand caught her and entwined its fingers in hers. They both seemed caught up in sentiment that night.

"So, I've been thinking," Erich mumbled.

Mehra chuckled under her breath. "You're always thinking, Erich."

He sighed in exasperation, a sign that something truly was eating at him. It wasn't like him to fret, and that was cause enough for concern.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Talos is a God," he said. "We used his blood to open the door to Mankar Camoran's paradise. Wouldn't have worked if he wasn't one."

Oh, this was headed in a bad direction.

"I remember that," Mehra said.

"The Nine. I feel like we – the Seventeen – do more than they do."

And there it was. That was one of the quicker ones, now that she thought of it. Mehra didn't know what to say in reply to that, given that she didn't have much of an opinion of the argument of Divines versus Daedra. Her soul was bound to Moonshadow upon death, and that was that.

"From what I remember," she said. "They don't have the energy to come down here much, after creating like they did."

Erich stared down at the ground and kicked at a stone on the path. "That's what is thought, yeah. What if it isn't true?"

And there was more to the disturbing thoughts. He was full of them from time to time, and it always startled her with how quickly he went from joking to serious, and back to joking again.

"Do you know something we don't?" Mehra asked. She wouldn't put it past him; even as a mortal, he knew too much for his own good.

"I honestly don't know," he sighed. "But I still want to know why Akatosh let the Amulet of Kings get shattered and killed off the heir. Couldn't he have swooped down just once? He had to come through Martin instead? It is as if he didn't want to deal with his mortal descendants."

She didn't know what to say in reply to that. Mehra wasn't Temple educated; the orphanage never bothered to teach her that many things about the Nine.

And Mehra couldn't say if she felt abandoned by Akatosh or whomever. She lived her life alone, and it wasn't until she returned to Tamriel that she made an attempt to connect with others and gained some semblance of spirituality.

Even then, she was caught in between immortal and mortal. She was stuck in between the Divine and the Daedra. Mehra quickly found that in her old age, she didn't particularly care to pick sides.

"If the dragons are of Akatosh," he continued, "and Alduin is of him, then why doesn't he punish Alduin for being an ass?"

Why didn't he? Could he? It didn't matter. Mehra would and hopefully could, on behalf of all the realms. It would have to do.

"Erich, your guess is as good as mine," she sighed. "I just do what I have to."

"That's not good enough!" he hissed. "Why do you have to do it? Why did Martin have to do it?"

Mehra sighed again and shook her head. "I don't know, Erich. But I'll bear it."

Always. She'd give until there was nothing left to give.

"Are you scared, dear?" Erich asked.

"Yes. Daily."

"Me too."

She didn't like hearing that. Erich seemed fearless to her all the time, and especially now.

"I'm sorry," he sighed. "I've had these questions about the Nine for my entire life. I asked Martin, even. Thing is – now that I know so many forbidden secrets and blasphemies, I still don't have the answers I was seeking. The Nine are as nebulous and as absent to me as they've always been."

Mehra didn't have anything good to say in reply. She never struggled with thoughts of the Nine, though he brought up a very good point. She supposed that was where faith came into play – to trust that they had good plans and intentions for mortals. Mehra couldn't begin to place that trust in anyone, not even herself.

She didn't know if she could always have good intentions, after all.

Erich stared up at the sky and shook his head. "I shouldn't burden you with my questions. I've no right to do that, after telling you to quit being anxious. I'm sorry."

"It doesn't bother me," she said. "Honestly, I haven't considered the Nine much at all. Maybe that's bad, given that I'm Dragonborn."

He shrugged. "Maybe, but probably not. Then again, consider the source."

Mehra chuckled. He was irreverent as a mortal – downright vulgar at times. Even as a hero, he stood out terribly in court as a foul-mouthed peasant. The Chancellor was probably relieved when Erich disappeared.

They continued on quietly for a moment, until Erich faltered in his step and shot her a strange look.

"You know what?" he said. "Yeah, I think I'll tell you. Couldn't hurt. Well, it might. It'll be interesting, at least."

She lifted her brow. "What are you on about?"

"I just thought of something," Erich said. "I don't think I ever told you. I wasn't sure how you'd take it, to be honest. It was a big secret."

Mehra blinked and stared up at the dark silhouette of trees above them. "Given that you were Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, I can't honestly think of what other kind of secret you'd have that you would have wanted to hide from me."

He laughed, giving her hand a squeeze. "Well, it's a doozie. I don't know how it didn't come out, other than the fact that had it come out, dozens of others would have been implicated."

"Oh," she chuckled, "this should be good."

"I was a prostitute."

Mehra stopped in her tracks and their hands disconnected. "A-a what? Prostitute?"

"And that's what I was afraid of," he sighed. Erich continued walking.

She shook her head and jogged to catch up with him.

"No, not like that," Mehra insisted. "I'm just shocked. I hadn't the slightest clue. How did that happen?"

"I was young and needed the money," Erich said. "The rich elite of Cyrodiil paid fistfuls of gold for me, and the work got me enough money so that I could pay rent in the Market District. That was worth getting my back clawed up."

Well, Hermaeus Mora did say that Erich's kind didn't gag. Apparently, he liked dangling little bits of secrets in front of others and likely basked in his superiority when they didn't catch on.

She shook her head and sighed.

"My first instinct now is to make sure you're fine," she said. "But given that we're two-hundred years after the fact, I suppose it's too late for that."

"I permitted things that I resented," he replied. "I let them take out their 'barbarian man' fetishes on me. Some couldn't separate the act I put on from the real me. Some actually cared about me. It was complicated. Like all things in life: very, very complicated."

Mehra nodded.

"A lot of stuff makes sense, now," she mumbled. "I guess I had my head so far up my own ass that I couldn't figure it out."

Erich chuckled. "I did my best to keep it a secret. People don't like being in a relationship with prostitutes, after all. But I quit when I started seeing you – whatever that's worth. Had you found that out instead of my identity as Listener, would you have left?"

He had women pawing all over him – especially in the Imperial City – and it made a lot of sense, especially since the most outrageous of them were among the wealthiest women in the capital. In fact, the worst of them was –

Goodness, the composer and his wife were swingers, weren't they?

So many people called him 'Red'. That must have been his work name.

"The silence says a lot," he mumbled.

Mehra snapped out of her stupor.

"No," she said. "My brain is mired down in details. It's obvious in hindsight. But when I think about it, even back then, I supported the idea of people doing whatever they had to in order to get by. It's how you got off the streets, after all. Better than all that murdering I did in Daggerfall."

He nodded. "Fair enough. I imagine that had you not slit all those throats, then you wouldn't have been caught and sent to Morrowind."

Mehra winced. These days, she didn't like talking about her career as the infamous 'Daggerfall Slasher'. Though when she met Erich, she foolishly bragged about the whole thing.

Honestly, she should have known he was an assassin or something of the sort. The way he listened to her slasher stories in interest didn't leave much to the imagination.

Then again, she had her head so far up her ass at the time that she could only think about how great she was, and in a distant second was the fact that she hooked a magnificent catch without even sleeping with him –

Which also tied into the fact that she had delusions of self grandeur at the time.

"Do you ever look back on some of the things you said and did when you were younger and cringe?" she asked.

Erich swore under his breath, giving her a clear answer.

"Yeah, me too," Mehra grumbled.

She turned her gaze to the distant lights of Ivarstead on the darkened horizon. They didn't have too much more time to walk together before they got to the village.

And, after that, she had to climb to the top of the Throat of the World and do something incredibly dangerous and foolish in a desperate bid to save the world. This could very well be one of her last nights on the mortal plane, or at least, one of her last nights living in the present time.

Her thoughts caught her up so much that she forgot to renew her spell. The candlelight spell flickered and died, plunging them into darkness. Blinking, Mehra raised her hand to cast another, but Erich quickly caught her wrist.

"Hey, so you're really pretty," he whispered, "and I really like you a lot. Will you let me kiss you?"

Mehra chuckled. "Oh, yes. I've had a crush on you for the longest time, Erich."

He swept her into his arms, pressing a kiss against her lips. Clinging to the front of his armor, Mehra returned his kiss and clumsily pushed him to the side of the road to where she remembered a large, flat-sided boulder. They stumbled forward through the brush, making a mess of the saplings and shrubs that lined the path.

Erich backed into the rock with a dull thud. Breaking away from the kiss, Mehra heard him pant in want, the sound harsh and loud against the backdrop of the sleeping forest.

Her heart hammered. That escalated fast.

"Are you safe right now?" Mehra asked.

Erich's hands stilled on her back. "Am I – what?"

Mehra didn't care that they were in the middle of the woods; she wanted him now. She didn't know if something terrible would happen to her when she used the Elder Scroll. If it did – if she ended up stuck in the past or in between time – she didn't want any regrets. Mehra leaned up to kiss him again –

Mm, that was his neck. Close enough; he was so tall and she was lucky enough to reach that far standing on the tips of her toes. Mehra planted a series of kisses against the junction where his neck connected to his collar, then leaned up to murmur in his ear.

"Last time, I didn't get to–"

"Oh, no," Erich said. "Don't worry about that."

She wasn't worried; she wanted to do it. Stubborn, Mehra sank to her knees in front of him. Her hands searched in the dark – thighs, bulge, hips – ah, there was the belt. She tugged on his belt and unbuckled it.

"Really, if you don't want to – I mean, I don't necessarily need–"

Mehra rolled her eyes and groped him through his pants. "Sure," she grumbled, "I think you're harder than this rock back here."

He swore, grinding himself against her palm.

"And that's my answer," Mehra chuckled. She let go to work on his pants once again.

"I want you to know –"

"Mhm."

" – if this doesn't work out –"

"Mhm."

" – and not that I'm saying it won't –"

"Mhm."

How in the heck were these laces tied?

" – I want to make sure that you stay safe so –"

"Mhm."

There. Mehra loosened the knot and the cord that bound the front of his pants nearly burst open.

Yep. Rock hard. Shame that she couldn't see a thing with all the clouds covering the moons.

" – if I have to leave then –"

She tugged the leather pants down to his knees and inched her hands up his strong thighs. Mehra didn't have to guess to know he wore nothing under them; it had always been a bad habit of his.

"Do you sweat?" she asked.

Because if he had been baking himself in leather pants with nothing on underneath while walking all day, she wanted to be prepared.

"Uh, what?"

Mehra drummed her fingers against his thigh. "Do you sweat?" she repeated.

"Not often," Erich replied. "It takes a lot of exertion for me to need to even start to sweat. Why is that relevant? W-what are you going to do?"

"Hm, good."

"Mehra?"

She chuckled and rubbed circles on his thighs – so, so strong.

"Mr. Smooth is flustered," Mehra said. "I think I like it. Makes me feel tough and I can delude myself into thinking for a bit that I've got him under control."

Erich laughed and leaned back against the rock. "Alright," he sighed, "alright. I'm just scaring myself. You're so precious to me."

"And you are to me, as well," she replied, planting a quick kiss against his thigh.

Mehra paused and sighed. "If it doesn't work out again, that's fine. And please, if I'm pressuring you into doing something you're uncomfortable with, tell me now."

"No, it's fine," he replied. "I'm honestly more worried about my failure than anything."

"Alright," she said. "I just – Erich, your ability to have sex with me or not has no bearing on my feelings for you."

She heard a sniff in the dark.

"Do you," Erich mumbled, "Do you want to make me cry, or something?"

"Only if it's in pleasure."

It made a lot of sense that he staked so much of who he was on his sexual performance. Not only did he have a reputation, but sex was part of his work for years.

In a strange sense, she guessed it was similar to how she felt like a failure of a wizard when she returned to Tamriel. Maybe there was more to it than that, but she didn't want to ruin the mood with a heart-to-heart on his feelings.

Mehra pulled her gloves off with her teeth, unstrapped her helm, and placed her hands back on him. Leaning in, she trailed her hands up his thighs and inward to grasp –

Alright, so the statistically massive guy was big all over. Mehra wasn't sure why she was surprised; it was logical. Though she had a glimpse some time ago, she was too terrified at the time to notice.

Mehra gave him an experimental stroke to get an idea of what she was dealing with and immediately fought the tacky urge to cast a light spell. Leaning in, she wrapped her lips around him and stroked him with her hand as she drew him into her mouth.

He moaned a loud word – probably daedric, and most likely a curse. As she began to move, Mehra placed her other hand on his thigh in an attempt to get him to hold a bit more still.

Erich shifted on his feet and groaned the strange word again.

Mehra moved her head faster and wished she could see him squirming and swearing against the rock, his pants down to his knees. She certainly felt him moving despite his best efforts.

That word – whatever it was – became a mantra as she worked him with her mouth.

His hands found a place on the pauldrons of her armor. As she increased her pace ever so slightly, Mehra heard scraping near her ear.

She froze. Those were claws scratching against her armor. He hadn't said anything, yet, but this development wasn't very comforting.

Erich shuddered. "Please, don't stop. I'll be good; I promise."

Mehra chuckled darkly. That was definitely an ego boost; she hadn't done this in a very, very long time. She resumed at a much faster pace, earning a squeaking gasp. The disturbing scratching continued and his thighs tensed.

At least he stopped squirming so much. Mehra was waiting for him to bump into her teeth, with all the moving he did.

Pulling back, she wrapped both of her hands around his cock and focused on running the tip of her tongue on the bundle of nerves on the underside of his head. He inhaled sharply above her. Emboldened, Mehra flicked her tongue over the sensitive spot as quickly as she could.

He gasped a word that made the trees around them tremble.

Mehra drew him back into her mouth and continued giving him attention with her tongue as much as possible. Her hand stroked in time with each downward movement of her head.

Erich tapped her shoulder with his hand and moaned louder.

Oh, good. Her jaw was getting sore. Determined, Mehra bobbed her head faster, and the hand returned to her shoulder, tapping frantically. Erich gasped as if he were drowning.

She braced her hand against his trembling thighs and worked him as quickly as she could. Still, the hand tapped her.

Yes, she knew. Her mouth was a bit too busy to say anything. Mehra patted his leg and hummed a quick affirmation.

Erich shouted an oath as he erupted inside her mouth, his claws scraping against the back plate of her armor. Gods, that was a lot. Without thinking, Mehra swallowed as quickly as she could.

Words of unknown origin continued to tumble out of his mouth, even as he fell back against the rock to catch his breath.

Mehra stood and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She was damn proud of that one; she made him swear in a bunch of different languages – some of which were certainly infernal. As Mehra massaged her jaw, a realization hit her:

Technically, she swallowed something of great scientific importance.

"Your turn?" Erich asked.

"Would be nice," she admitted. "My smalls are so soaked that they'll probably stand up on their own when they dry later."

He laughed out loud, grabbed her hips, and hoisted her up on the rock.

"The ladies' lament," Erich mused. "A ruined pair of smalls."

Mehra sighed as he began to unfasten sections of her armor.

"I am grateful to no longer deal with menses," she said.

"I imagine so," he said. "Would be unfair to have them for the rest of forever."

Erich slid her pants down to the tops of her thighs and bent her legs. His breath ghosted over the back of her thighs as he leaned in.

Mehra chuckled. "If someone comes up with a torch –"

"They don't patrol this road," he said. "Still, I'd flash 'em a good view and laugh."

She opened her mouth to reply, but the sensation of him giving her a long, slow lick made the words on her tongue evaporate into a moan. His tongue traveled up the length of her, circling away from her clit.

Sighing, Mehra closed her eyes and lay back against the rock as he teased her again. His fingers joined in, circling but never penetrating. Thank – Sheogorath, she guessed – that his claws weren't present. Still, the teasing wasn't fair.

"That's a nasty way to drive someone insane," she grumbled.

Mehra pushed her hips forward and felt him chuckle against her.

"Damn," he whispered. "She knows our secret."

Erich complied, sliding a finger inside her and giving a pointed lick to her aching nerves. She gasped and attempted to grab at the rock beneath her, but found nothing to hold onto. Slowly, he thrust back inside her, punctuating each plunge of his finger with a caress of his tongue.

Mehra whimpered and bucked her hips closer. Still, she was convinced he intended to drive her insane by going so slowly.

As if he read her mind – and probably did – his tongue flickered faster as a second finger joined the first. She quickly lost track of everything, save the sensation of his mouth and hands. He became relentless, and her hands scrambled helplessly across the rock.

His tongue moved at an impossible speed and utter nonsense filled with begging fell from her mouth. The blackened night grew darker as pleasure overtook her in wave after wave of ecstasy.

Even as she came down from her high, Erich continued at his frantic pace. Mehra gasped. She wasn't sure if she wanted to try to escape or beg for more, and her overwhelmed body didn't have a clue, either.

Within seconds, her mind was made up. Pleasure ripped through her once again. Above the cacophony of sensation, she felt soreness in her throat as she let out another unintelligible shout.

Erich finally slowed down just as the last ripples of pleasure fluttered through her body. Panting, Mehra collapsed back against the rock in an attempt to catch her breath. She closed her eyes.

The devil's tongue tried her again and she shrieked and jumped back. Immediately, Erich let go of her.

"No?" he asked.

Mehra squirmed. "If I have one more like that, I will die. Not hyperbole; I will actually die."

"So, it's like greenmote," he chuckled.

She didn't know what he was talking about and wasn't sure if she ought to ask. With trembling legs, Mehra scooted off the rock to land on her feet. She stepped forward to kiss him, the dull poke of his erection against her stomach stopping her midway.

"Again?" Mehra said.

Well, she did remember that Sanguine was 'always on'.

"Yep," Erich coughed.

She didn't care if she limped her stupid way up the tallest mountain on the continent. Mehra thought that maybe, she could try just a bit of him.

A little bit.

A lot, actually. Even in the best of times, she'd end up sore with a man this size.

Mehra pursed her lips. "Well, do you want to – I could just uh – bend over – "

"Bad idea, yet."

She nodded and shimmied her pants back up her hips. "Alright, well, let's take care of this, hm?"

"Oh, you don't have to," he said.

"Well, I want to," Mehra shrugged. "Do you?"

Erich laughed. "Honestly, you'd pull a muscle in your jaw and have noodle-arms by the time I'd quit being in the mood."

"Perks of being a daedra?" she asked.

"Way too perky, at times," he grumbled. "I don't want it even half as often as I did as a mortal, but the reset is fast."

Mehra began to grab her armor in the dark, swore under her breath, and cast a small light spell in order to find everything. By the time she had each piece of her armor and her bag ready, Erich stood off to the side patiently.

A quick glance over to the conspicuous bulge in his pants had her thinking again.

"Someday," she said.

Erich shrugged. "Eventually."

They continued on toward Ivarstead with the gentle light of the spell floating behind them. Mehra knew that as a mortal, he was good, but as a daedra that never tired –

Honestly, it was almost unbearable.

Almost. Her legs were weak, but she was still walking.

"So I think I figured out why you're dangerous," she said. "Have you uh – ever seen a Dwemer piston?"

Erich burst out in laughter so hard that his legs looked shaky. After a moment of laughing, he sobered immediately.

"No," he said. "I am actually dangerous. You'll see."

Mehra sighed. "That sounds ominous."

"It is. Sorry. But not extra sorry."

Well, that killed her mood, if nothing else.

Wary, Mehra continued on with him, though she still found herself suckered into linking her arm with his as they walked. The lights of Ivarstead grew gradually brighter, until the pair stopped at the beginning of the town. It was quiet, there; nearly everyone appeared to be settled in for the evening. Near the far edge of town and further toward the center, a pair of torches moved with purpose as a few guards made their rounds.

They stopped outside the door of the inn where Mehra would stay the night before making her trek up the dangerous mountain. The glow of the lantern outside the tavern door illuminated Erich in a wash of golden light, and as he grabbed her hands and peered down at her, she forgot to breathe.

"You're great," he murmured. "You're better and wiser than you've ever been. You can do this."

Erich pulled her in and wrapped his arms around her. Sighing, Mehra leaned into his embrace.

"Thank you. If something bad happens –"

"You'll be fine," Erich insisted.

"Do you know that?" Mehra asked, pulling back and staring into his eyes.

He sighed and shook his head. "No, I don't. But I refuse to consider the alternative out of self-preservation."

"I don't want to consider it, either," she admitted.

Erich pulled her in for a suffocating kiss, and despite her somber mood, the way he kissed her had her wanting more once again. There was a part of her that wanted to beg him to spend the night, not necessarily so they could indulge in their desires. He radiated a warmth so comforting that Mehra wanted him next to her just so she could be held.

As he deepened the kiss, Mehra realized that if he stayed with her, they wouldn't be able to keep their hands off of each other.

"There are rooms in the inn, you know."

Mehra jumped back in shock. Panicked, she turned to the direction of the voice.

Oh, thank goodness that it was just the farmer girl.

"Sorry, Miss Fastred," Erich said. "It uh – well – it was exactly what it looked like, to be honest."

She gave them a sly smile. "I understand. Mind yourselves, though; some people are stuffy around here. Then again, I don't know who would bother the Dragonborn, but you never know."

"I prefer to stay out of trouble," Mehra said.

Interesting that Erich knew her name. Maybe, he got information about the barrow from Fastred.

Mehra watched as she wiped her hands on the work apron tied around her skirt.

"I suppose you two are lucky," Fastred said. "We heard some mountain-cats up there in the woods where you came from. They were yowling up a storm all the way down into our little valley, here."

Erich nodded in agreement. "Don't want to get in the way of a pair of mating mountain-cats."

"Mhm," she drawled. "Yes, mating. Well, you have a pleasant evening. Gods-be-w-ye both."

Mehra sighed and watched as Fastred made her way back to her home. She heard nothing but good things about her from when she spent nights at the inn and was certain that they scandalized the poor, wholesome thing.

As soon as she was gone, Mehra turned to Erich and sighed.

"I suppose this is goodbye for a little while," she said.

"Only a little bit," he replied. "It can't be anything else."

"Of course."

She leaned up and gave him a final kiss.

"I'll see you in a few days," he said. "Hopefully something good comes from all of this."

"See you then."

With that, she turned to the door of the inn, her heart heavy. Mehra opened the door, then turned back to get one last look at him.

He was gone, and his absence made the truth of what she had to do all the more real.

She had to do this alone.

* * *

He was a lonely, bitter being – so much that he didn't visit often, even though they were close allies. A part of her suspected that he thought they were allies only because she took pity on him. She never had real proof of it, of course; he kept nearly everything to himself and was wary to trust even those who called him a friend.

Such was the nature of Malacath. She couldn't hold it against him, the same as she couldn't hold Azura's vanity against her.

Mephala chuckled to herself as Malacath grabbed the handle of the cup of tea she poured for him. In the next second he froze, a wary look crossing his face.

"I'm not laughing at you, dear friend," she said. "I liked the look of your big warrior hand holding that dainty little cup. You're a handsome fellow, Malacath."

His expression softened as he stared down at the tea. "The others remind me of my ugly underbite every time I see them."

She nodded quietly. Such a shame about that, really. He had Boethiah's beautiful serpent fangs, but they were situated on the opposite jaw and jutted out like the jowls of a fish. But he was strong looking, if strength could truly be measured by appearance alone.

"I was too distracted by your muscles to notice," Mephala said.

A half-truth, but a somewhat truth nonetheless.

"Are you really saying that?" he asked. "Or are you just saying it?"

And there was the startling lack of self-confidence once again. Mephala shrugged and poured herself a cup of tea.

"I know I cannot convince you of these things," she replied. "I wish that I could, my dear ally."

Mephala felt a disturbance in her web and looked up to see Azura storming across the void of her lair.

"Mephala! Mephala! That abomination touched my daughter!"

Ah, so it finally happened.

"How do I make it stop?" Azura asked.

Mephala raised her brow. Really? "You remember the amount of us it took to hold him down, right? Don't delude yourself into thinking the successor is weaker."

"Sheogorath?" Malacath frowned.

"Yes, Sheogorath," Mephala said.

He shook his head and put the cup of tea down on its saucer.

"Azura, I don't know what you're going to do with that kid of yours," he said. "She's always so troubled. She makes terrible decisions. Sheogorath is – well, he tricked me into killing my own son, for starters. Isn't Nerevar inside her to guide her? Does she even listen to his spirit's urges? "

"Not often enough," Azura grumbled. She threw her hands in the air, and Malacath quickly pushed a chair out from the table. The weary Azura sat, slumped, and put her head in her hands.

"I don't know what Jyggalag was thinking," she mumbled, "picking that cat-in-heat prostitute. Oh, my Mehra."

Mephala fought the urge to roll her eyes. It was just sex! Quickly, she thought of all the possible things she could say to her sister, but found each branching possibility of conversation unsatisfactory.

Well, she had to say something.

"She's no virgin, sister," she said.

"I know that."

"She loved that man when he was mortal, sister."

"I know that."

"And he loved – and probably still loves – her very dearly, sister."

"I know that!"

"Besides; I had sex with him and he was just fine. Magnificent, even."

"I did not know that, sister," Azura hissed.

Mephala shrugged and discreetly cast a past vision spell into the cup of tea in front of her. There, in the reflection in the tea, she saw Mehra kneeling before the young Sheogorath in the dark. Kneeling; how wonderful! It was the type of worship one of their kind deserved, in her opinion.

"Sanguine brought him by," Mephala said. "Though he was in a state of melancholy – wore black and purple – he was rather mild and pleasant. It was fortunate timing, considering his ways."

She couldn't help but notice Azura's scowl of disdain at the mention of Sanguine.

"You're seeing him again?" she frowned.

Mephala glanced down at the tea again and watched as Mehra worshiped Sheogorath with her mouth. Through the darkened haze in the reflection, she saw him squirm and utter some of the most foul of daedric curse words. Well, the Incarnate was certainly doing a good job!

"We're lovers, Azura," Mephala said. "I will always be seeing Sanguine. Now, if you'd like some tea, you're more than welcome to it."

Azura hunched further in her seat. "I know I interrupted," she sighed, "but I am very concerned. You know about these things; I figured you could help in some way."

Ah, of course. She was known for sex. And Azura –

Mephala couldn't think of the last time she heard of Azura doing such things. There was that one time she was caught in a compromising position, and she didn't think Azura would ever live it down.

"I'm watching what they did in the reflection of my tea," she admitted. "I see nothing out of the ordinary, so far."

Malacath sighed and tipped his chair on its back legs. He was getting bored and frustrated.

"So Jyggalag is free," he grumbled. "Not surprising; that's what betrayal gets you."

That was a bit dramatic. Jyggalag did a number of things to them, and they responded in kind. They were even and that was that.

Though she couldn't say for certain that he wouldn't try something again. Regardless, the new Sheogorath would be amenable to their cause.

"The successor will certainly be on our side," she shrugged. "He was a bit of a legend, given some of the things he did. You remember Erich Heartfire?"

"He freed some of my ogres," Malacath said. "Couldn't use Volendrung for shit; wasn't a hammer fighter. But, eh, he bludgeoned well enough. Big, for a mortal. Wasn't he a shrine hopper?"

Mephala nodded in assent and ooked back down at the tea in curiosity. Oh! Ah, Azura would like this.

"He returned the favor," she said.

"I know," Azura grumbled. "I felt her delight through the connection we have through the ring."

Azura shuddered and Mephala couldn't help but needle her further.

"Have you met him as he is now, Sister?" she asked.

"I have not."

"He's a lovely creature," she said. "You like pretty things; I'm sure you'll like him. In fact, his hair may even be more lovely than yours."

Azura pursed her lips. "Doubtful."

"Sheogorath is known for the arts. You could paint a dusk or dawn together," she offered.

"Dubious at best, Sister."

"He'd loosen you up a bit if nothing else," Mephala scoffed. "You need a good, hard –"

"Disgusting!"

She laughed at her sister's revulsion and glanced at Malacath. Predictably, he wasn't amused in the least.

"I don't care if he's a 'new' Sheogorath," he said. "His nature is chaos and deceit. He will kill your child, Azura, the same made me do to mine. Not to mention the fact that he killed Hircine's prized beast. I wouldn't trust him for a second – not with what his lies have done."

"So her soul goes to Moonshadow," Mephala shrugged.

Well, that would be fine after the Incarnate saved the mortal plane again. But she was certain that he'd control himself until afterward; all the realms would be in trouble if he didn't, and Mephala knew Sheogorath was informed enough to know this.

"That is not the same creature you gave your Ebony Blade to," he grumbled. "This is Sheogorath, not some mortal prostitute you had some sort of attraction to. And, you obscured this fact from your precious Sanguine. I wonder why. Is it because you wanted to keep him for yourself?"

She narrowed her eyes. "You've lain with the mortals, too. Both of you, in fact. Leave me alone, and leave the Incarnate alone, hypocrites. There is too much going on as is without petty drama."

Malacath sighed and looked down at the cup of tea on the table.

"Petty?" he grumbled. "A betrayal that cut deeper than any sword – my own son; the beloved bridge between the mortal Orsimer and me – cut down by a pack of lies and deceit straight from Sheogorath. His soul is damned to live in the Shivering Isles as a severed head. Don't you dare tell me what's petty and what isn't."

She watched as Malacath stood and gathered his cloak to leave. Well, he was in a mood, again.

While what happened with Malacath's son and the Neb-Crescen was quite unfortunate, Mephala didn't necessarily think it was all on Sheogorath. After all, a deal with him was a foolish prospect, and only the most arrogant of her kin chose to do something so reckless.

Malacath left without a word and she sighed. There was something off about her friend, but Mephala supposed it was just the sore attitude he had whenever Sheogorath came up in conversation.

She found it a bit silly that he still held that grudge.


	41. Chapter 41

A/n: I am eventually re-reading this monster of a fic for corrections. I'm going to try to do corrections at the same time as updates so that I don't blow up peoples' inboxes with fake alerts! That used to be a thing and I'm not sure if it still is or not? When I replace a chapter it emails me, but I'm not sure how it works for you all on either platform that I post on. I am not re-writing chapters, but just correcting errors and passive voice. The non-canon errors in travel in the beginning will stay as-is, since fixing them would require a major overhaul. It's not worth any of you re-reading the fic over, unless you really want to.

Life update: My mom's dog was diagnosed with cancer in his toe in mid-December. The toe was amputated the day after Christmas, and we have been caring for him as he recovers. The biopsy is not back yet, but recurrence is possible. Right now, we're just focusing on how to best take care of him. He walks decently well for having a weight-bearing toe amputated, but he is still trying to get a hang of it.

* * *

 

_"Time. Time is an artificial construct. An idea based on the theory that events occur in a linear direction, at all times. Always forward, never back. Is the concept of time correct? Is time relevant?" -Sheogorath_

 

* * *

They traveled under the cover of night, knowing that if they weren't careful, they could lead someone back to their hideout. Having to hide so much wasn't fun, but it was just part of the job. Thankfully, they were both night owls.

Babette was a vampire, so it would have been very surprising to Nazir if she were a morning person.

When he first joined, she gave him the creeps. It took him a while to warm up to her, but eventually, she became one of his closest confidants in the Brotherhood. Though Babette was a child in body, there was something motherly about how she treated the others – even if it was a stern type of motherly.

Mindful of their difference in height, Nazir helped Babette over a log that blocked the way forward through the dense forest.

"I hope there's something nice on the hearth when we get back," he sighed.

"Doubtful," Babette chuckled. "At least I don't have to deal with that stuff. The swill Festus has been cooking up would turn off a beggar."

He missed Astrid's cooking. He missed her training, too. He missed her laugh and encouragement. He missed the way that she teased Arnbjorn; they were a bit like mom and dad. Arnbjorn was having a hell of a rough time, and Nazir couldn't blame him.

"We still don't have a Listener," he frowned. "You've been around for a while. Do you have any idea who should be next? Astrid was one of a kind."

Babette shrugged. "You're all my family, but Arnbjorn's a dullard. Festus is a bit tottering. The others – well, they're followers. I've got no clue. You're right; Astrid was special."

He thought for a moment as they traveled back through the underbrush toward the Sanctuary. Babette was correct in her assessment of everyone, and Nazir also put himself into the category of follower.

He was perfectly content with following.

"Well, how about you?" he asked.

"Ha!"

Birds scattered from the trees above. Babette turned to him, her eerie eyes making him shudder.

"I might be old," she said, "and I might have been a part of the Brotherhood for centuries, but I am no Listener. And, besides that, you know very well that nobody's going to listen to me. My appearance is far from imposing, nor is it inspiring."

Nazir nodded to himself. He wished she wouldn't be so hard on herself, but he knew that Babette worked strictly with facts, no matter how harsh they were.

"You know the old ways, though," he offered.

Babette looked wistful as she walked next to him on their secret path though the forest. After some time, she shook her head.

"There was a sort of golden age," she said. "It was two centuries ago, just before the Oblivion Crisis. We pulled in contracts from all over the continent. The Listeners were held in the highest regard – if you had the fortune to know their identity. Cyrodiil was the hub back then, and in each province was one highest-ranked Speaker who was the contact with the Listener. Jurgald was ours at the time."

Nazir kept an eye on the path for danger, but found himself distracted by Babette's story. It was very rare that she mentioned the old days, much less talk in detail about that time. Perhaps, Astrid's death brought back some memories.

He hoped they weren't sad memories; Babette seemed older and more weary lately than she ever had in the time he'd known her.

"What was Jurgald like?" he asked.

She chuckled under her breath. "He tried to be like a father to almost everyone. Put a lot of pressure on himself to make sure everyone was cared for. When the Cyrodiil chapter was in need, he sent help, even though we were buried in contracts. Then, when Oblivion opened up, we had even more problems. But he knew what was good and helped out Cyrodiil."

Babette gasped and stopped in her tracks. "Did I ever tell you what happened there? It was a mess!"

"No," Nazir replied. "Can it be any worse than what happened to Astrid?"

She cackled and he winced. Clearly, he had no clue.

"Alright," she said. "So there was this Speaker named Lucien Lachance. When he was lower-ranked, he was sent to kill a man's wife. Turned out that the woman's son was hiding under the bed when he fulfilled the contract. The boy vowed revenge and infiltrated the Brotherhood by killing his father and getting contacted."

Nazir swore under his breath. That was a mess indeed.

"They caught him," Babette shrugged. "Of course, not until after he killed all but two of the remaining members of the Cyrodiil Brotherhood. He framed Lucien Lachance and got the guy killed. Jurgald helped as best he could with resources for the unlikely new Listener."

"Unlikely?" he repeated.

She nodded. "Worked his way from entry to Listener in a matter of months. He was Lucien's Silencer. A war hero, if you can believe that. A pretty face with an empty head, believe me. He was Jurgald's boy-toy when he came to visit. Yuck."

He furrowed his brows in confusion. "Lucien, or his Silencer?"

Nazir wasn't paying enough attention, and he could tell by Babette's frustrated sigh.

"The Silencer," she grumbled. "Lucien was sharp, and big on keeping with the Family. The Silencer turned Lister – well – I think he wanted to populate his Sanctuary with his own little assassins. There were dozens of rumors about the guy. I'm not sure if it was people being jealous over the newest guy being in charge, or if the rumors really were true. Jurgald was heartbroken when the guy disappeared off the face of the earth. My theory is the daedra found a way to capture him; divination revealed nothing and his soul was not in the Void."

Nazir nodded in agreement. "Sure doesn't leave many options, unless he got soultrapped."

Babette cackled. "That would be the day. The guy was a killing machine. Though I wasn't crazy about the guy, I was a fan of his work. Rumor had it that he popped a guy's head off with his thighs."

He winced and nodded. That didn't sound like someone to get easily taken down. Perhaps, a trap had been set for him.

"Anyway," she continued. "That's not important. My point to all of this is that the Brotherhood has been through worse. There was also the time that Cyrodiil got wiped out again from war. Poor Alisanne; she deserved better than she got. If I were superstitious, I'd think the area was cursed or something. But as it is, I think it's just dumb luck. "

"And now," Nazir mused, "we're the ones with dumb luck."

Babette nodded solemnly.

"You think we'll get some new guy to become our Listener?" he chuckled.

"Ugh. Terrible joke," she groused. "That's no way to run an organization – gifts from the Night Mother or not."

Nazir laughed. "I agree. Can't imagine –"

They both stopped and fell silent at the sight of a wagon out front of the Sanctuary. Inside the wagon lay a simple, pine coffin. And beyond the wagon, the Sanctuary door lay open – a sight he hadn't seen before. Suspicious of the whole thing, Nazir drew his sword and motioned for Babette to stay behind him.

She worked off of treachery; in open combat, she was at a stark disadvantage.

Babette did as he asked. Frowning, Nazir turned to her and brought his mouth to her ear.

"If it's too dangerous," he whispered, "you get out of here."

"Nazir –"

"I'll die defending you," he insisted.

She sighed and shook her head. "So much respect for your elders."

"Absolutely."

Babette was vital to the survival of the Brotherhood. Nazir knew it with all his heart.

He crept forward with his sword drawn. Behind him, he heard Babette cast a spell and follow. As he approached the Sanctuary, a familiar smell drifted out from beyond the door.

Nazir turned to Babette and waved the smell away from his nose. Babette nodded quietly in agreement. There was only one thing that smelled like that:

Death.

He stepped into the entrance of the Sanctuary and prepared himself for a fight. Voices welled up from deeper in the Sanctuary, both unfamiliar. He wasn't sure if the intruders were the ones who did this or if they were simply grave robbers, but regardless, they were dead for entering their sacred home.

"I feel the survivors," a voice said.

Nazir mouthed a curse.

A different voice stammered below. "I – I – we – I'm not trespassing! I'm from Cyrodiil! Cicero is the Keeper of the Night Mother after poor Alisanne – well, we know what they did to her!"

Those were names that only a member of the Brotherhood would have known. Still, the smell of death didn't make him fully trust them.

But one of them 'felt' their presence as they entered the Sanctuary. Given that, he wondered if this was their new Listener – a person so attuned with the Night Mother and the old ways that they had uncanny senses as the stories told.

Babette shoved him forward and he rolled his eyes. Apparently, he took too long to think.

"Alright," Nazir called, "I'm coming down. What happened?"

"Purification," the presumed Listener said, his tone matter of fact.

Behind him, Babette mumbled a curse under her breath. She probably had an idea of what was going on.

"They're all dead," she whispered.

Nazir swallowed and made his way down toward the voices below. He didn't want it to be true, but the smell of death grew stronger with each step. The sound of flies had him rushing through the living quarters with his gaze on the far end of the room.

He stepped into the main meeting room and tore his eyes away from the unrecognizable rotting corpse at one of the tables. There, by the stained glass mosaic of Sithis, stood a ginger haired man in a jester outfit. Next to him was an apparition of an assassin, his cloak drawn over his head in a way that obscured part of his ghostly features.

"You two are the chosen survivors," the ghost said. "Congratulations are in order, I suppose."

The jester winced and motioned around. "Cicero didn't do this; it was like this when he arrived with the Night Mother. She has arrived from Cyrodiil. When – when Cicero saw all of this, he wasn't sure what to make of it!"

He put his head in his hands and sighed.

"Thank goodness for that spell," the jester said. "Found the tome covered in dust. The spell summons one of our ancestors from Sithis! He blessed us with the presence of the loyalest Black Martyr himself, Lucien Lachance. Such a relief; Cicero was bewildered."

Who was Cicero, then? Given what he heard from Babette, though, the ghost had to be Lucien, and the jester – crazy eyes on that one – had to be referring to himself in the third person.

This was the ghost of the Speaker that Babette told him about.

Oh, they were fucked.

As if Lucien read his mind, he shook his head. "No, Nazir," he said. "You were saved, remember? And, Babette, I haven't seen you in ages. Though you didn't uphold tradition, the Dread Father wishes to give you a second chance."

She crossed her arms and hunched over with a frown as she took in the rotting corpse off to the side.

"I couldn't make them listen," Babette grumbled. "I'm good, but I'm a child to everyone. Fighting it became too much. I can't force anyone to do anything or talk them into it."

"Alright, Babette," he chuckled. "Alright. Well, you were spared, yes?"

She nodded. "I am grateful. I'm sure Nazir is as well."

Nazir nodded and sheathed his sword. Thank goodness they were in friendly company; ever since Astrid got taken down by the last person she tried to recruit, he had been on edge.

"Babette told me your story," he said. "I suppose you are here to get this Sanctuary back into shape?"

Lucien looked a bit bashful at the notion, if such a thing were possible.

"The spell is typically used for aid in danger," he said. "But I suppose if anything, this is an appropriate time. Because I am one with the Void, my spirit works as one of the daedra. When it is killed, I am banished to recover, then can be summoned again once my spirit gathers enough strength."

Lucien turned to Nazir. The glow of his eyes from under his hood was eerie, perhaps from the fact that he was awash in the void.

"So, you heard about Bellamont?" Lucien asked.

Nazir nodded. "Yeah. Sounds like it was a messy business."

"It was horrible," he admitted. "But the Night Mother is just, and vengeance was served. If my sin was to open my heart too wide for my Family, then it is a sin I will proudly bear for all of eternity. I loved Matthieu Bellamont as if he were my own child."

Nazir realized quickly that there was something different about this guy, aside from him being a ghost. He suspected that it had something to do with how connected he was to the old ways, and it made Nazir wonder how Babette even considered straying from them. Perhaps, she'd forgotten with time.

Though he was still reeling with the knowledge that everyone was dead except for Babette, he found himself curious as to what the old ways meant.

Cicero fidgeted off to the side. "The Sanctuary needs cleaning," he said. "Mother should only come inside once it is presentable."

Lucien nodded in agreement. "I'd honestly help you all clean this, but it is physically impossible."

Cicero waved his arm in dismissal.

"Cicero will get the bodies," he said. "He smells death daily with Mother and is one with it. We – we will need a lot of vinegar. Too much of it, even!"

He scrambled off to the other room, then stopped midway and turned back to look at Nazir and Babette.

"Don't worry about it," he said. "You get the new things and cleaning things and Cicero will do the dirty deeds. Then, revenge!"

He broke down in a fit of giggles, and Nazir couldn't help but laugh along with him. They'd get the foul vermin that dared to attack their Sanctuary – purification or not.

And he was very grateful that he didn't have to clean up the bodies of his dead friends. Nazir was no stranger to death, but it was different when it was so personal.

Lucien tilted his head to the side as if he were listening to someone whispering in his ear. Come to think of it, he probably was. Nazir shivered at the thought. What did that voice sound like?

"The Dread Father doesn't wish this," Lucien said. "Revenge, though usually righteous and correct, would be improper in this situation. There's –"

He closed his eyes and tilted his head to the side again.

"Great Sacrament," Lucien swore.

Nazir was about to ask him what was going on, but stopped at the sight of Babette staring on in worry. Eventually, Lucien shook his head.

"Well, they had the honor of being killed by the Dragonborn of Whiterun," he shrugged. "Revenge would be suicide. Leave it be, as Sithis has his reasons to protect the remainder of this group."

Nazir sighed and hung his head. "You'll get no complaint from me. Revenge would be a fool's errand; there are rumors about that woman from all over the place."

How bitter that they couldn't take their revenge. Surely this was part of their punishment.

"Babette," Lucien said, "is Erich Heartfire around? He is not in the Void. And I would presume that with how everything has gone here that he is not active anymore."

Babette crossed her arms and frowned.

"I was hoping you'd know the answer to that," she replied. "He disappeared. Would have been helpful."

Lucien looked devastated.

"Wow," Babette said. "So, he got to you, too?"

Lucien sighed and shook his head. "Not quite like that. I know what you're insinuating. We were very close; that's all."

Cicero hummed as he pulled an old bed linen into the room. "Daedra, now," he giggled. "He's a daedra, now. Dae-dra. Pretty, pret-ty dae-dra. Saw him in a mirror, Cicero did! The Sithis-shaped hole in the Void."

Lucien cleared his throat, waited for Cicero to leave the room again, and turned to them.

"As you can see," he murmured, "the Keeper is a bit 'touched'. I'm certain, however, that he is trustworthy."

Nazir chuckled. "You sure he isn't right? What if your guy is a daedra, now?"

"That's not very funny," Babette snorted. "Alright; it's a little funny, just from the point of view of a Master Alchemist like myself. The blood properties between a mortal and a daedra are completely different."

Cicero stumbled into the room with another handful of linens. "Transmutation! Never heard of it? Pah! Some alchemist!"

Nazir winced and gave Babette an apologetic look. She didn't deserve that, loon or not.

"Sithis provides me with information," Lucien said. "But I do not go asking for it. I am blessed enough to reside so closely to him in the Void. Perhaps, someday, he will reveal Erich's fate to me. Regardless, is not important. What is important is to rebuild."

He nodded in agreement and set off to find more cleaning supplies. They'd clean up the Sanctuary, dispose of the bodies, and sort through their things to find what could be used and what couldn't. If there were any trinkets or the like, perhaps they'd find a good use in giving them to the orphanage.

Nazir shuffled into the back room with a sour taste in his mouth. Had Astrid been a true Listener, she would have had a warning to not recruit the person who killed off Grelod. And, it was very possible that the same person was the one who came through and wasted the whole Sanctuary.

It was a heavy price to pay for not truly listening. Nazir hoped that they wouldn't repeat the same mistake twice.

As long as he was part of the Brotherhood, he'd make sure they wouldn't.

* * *

What she found in the morning horrified her. Her armor was not the same.

Embedded in the dragon bone pauldrons were deep scratches, as if someone went at it with –

Claws.

The marks were about half as deep as a gold coin. Thankfully, the pauldrons were quite thick, so she didn't think the armor was compromised beyond some very obvious cosmetic damage.

She had absolutely no clue that he was doing this much to her armor last night. And to think that she was practically begging him to –

Mehra had to stop this foolishness until she took care of Alduin. The last thing the world needed was for her to die by something she couldn't handle. What made her feel even worse was the fact that she likely pressured him into doing something potentially dangerous and forced him to have to control his mental illness.

That was basically the sum of it. Yes, he was a god, but he didn't have strict control over his own nature; that was the point of the Daedric Princes.

Well, she did give him the option of backing out. But did she really have to continue propositioning him after he said no once?

She already knew the answer to that. Sighing, Mehra tugged her armor on and did her best to ignore the deep gouges in across her pauldrons. Eorlund was going to have a fit about it, especially if he heard that it was from fooling around with a daedra.

Mehra shouldered her pack, left her room, and headed to the bar to pay for her stay. Wilhelm seemed none the wiser about her indiscretion outside the inn, and she was grateful for at least that. Perhaps, the promise she made to take supplies up for the Greybeards distracted him from noticing her armor. With her balance paid, she left the tavern and stepped out onto the worn road that cut through the town.

Fastred busied herself at the plot on her family's farm that lay closest to the road. Wincing, Mehra kept her head down and tried her best to not be noticed.

"Dragonborn?"

She sucked in a breath and turned to Fastred. Armor made of dragon and a shimmering House Telvanni cape weren't the best things to be wearing in order to remain inconspicuous.

"Something you need?" Mehra asked.

Fastred's gaze landed on the scratched pauldrons. "N-no, I," she stammered. "Um, that is – uh – he did that, didn't he? Erich did."

She clutched her hoe in what Mehra supposed was fear.

"Why?" Mehra asked. "Did he say something to you?"

Fastred froze. "Y-yes. Well, no. I-I have no intentions toward him, I promise!"

Oh. well, she supposed that they did give off the impression of being a couple.

"You don't have to be afraid," she said. "I'm honestly confused more than anything. I don't bite; I promise."

Fastred relaxed somewhat, but still appeared to be on edge. Mehra wondered when she'd start to scare people again with her mere presence and supposed that it was about time. That didn't mean it was a nice feeling, but it was at least understandable.

"Erich came into town some time ago," Fastred said. "He asked about the barrow and ended up taking care of the ghost in there. That's how I met him; that was all. I don't want to get with your man, I swear on all my ancestors."

Mehra nodded. "Alright; I believe you."

Fastred looked surprised, as if she hadn't expected such a simple answer.

"He's odd, though," she said. "There's something strange about when he looks at you or talks. He must have done that to your armor."

"How would you know?" Mehra asked.

Fastred swallowed. "I – I'm certain of it, just as certain as I am of Talos. He's a werewolf, isn't he?"

Hm. Interesting; she had some sort of gift of sight. Erich had everyone that she knew of fooled.

"Something like that," Mehra admitted. "You're the only one who has noticed. Maybe, you have some kind of gift that you weren't aware of. Regardless, mind yourself with that information, alright? I don't like the idea of people hassling him."

Her eyes widened in shock. "Of course, Dragonborn," she said. "He's a fine man – a fine man for a fine lady. Love and light to you both, and safe travels."

"Thank you," she nodded. "He's not mine, though. He's a free spirit, as he always has been."

Fastred seemed less surprised than Mehra expected at this information, but chose to say nothing. Instead, she wished her safe travels once again and gave her a small curtsy. With the conversation out of the way, Mehra headed down the path to the bridge that crossed the river in front of the Throat of the World. She supposed that if anyone had to notice the new marks on her armor, it was well enough that it was the same person who caught her kissing on a man outside the tavern the night before.

Through their brief interaction, she supposed she liked the girl well enough; she seemed to understand that she had to be quiet about some things, at least. There were plenty of people who loved to gossip who would have been all ears with her.

Mehra had to stop indulging herself so freely, however. She had a job to do, and the last thing she needed was getting herself hurt or maimed before she had a chance to get it done. That was, if tampering with an Elder Scroll in the place that it scarred the fabric of time itself wouldn't do something horrible to her.

She mulled over the possibilities of what could happen with the Elder Scroll and realized that worrying over it was ultimately pointless. There was comfort, however, in the fact that Paarthurnax would be watching, and if something went wrong, he'd do his best to try to help her in however he could.

Perhaps it was foolish to trust a dragon so much. All she knew was that he hadn't given her any reason to mistrust him and deserved a chance the same as anyone else.

Mehra trudged her way up the seven thousand crumbling steps that led to the entrance of the lonely stone monastery near the peak of the mountain. Though summer was on its way, the height of the mountain made the air cooler than she was used to. By the time she reached the doors of High Hrothgar, her fingers and toes were cold.

She pushed the doors of the monastery open, hoping that it would be warmer inside. As she stepped across the threshold and let the doors swing shut behind her, Mehra noticed with dismay that it seemed to be the same temperature inside High Hrothgar as it was outside. She supposed that was what happened when the only residents of the place were Nords.

As she made her way through the short foyer, one of the Greybeards called out to her, his raspy whisper making the ground tremble.

"Hello!" she replied. "I found an Elder Scroll. Finally; I know."

The soft chuckle in response rattled her body and made her ears pop.

Mehra stepped into the foyer to be greeted by the sight of Borri. He gave her a small bow and motioned toward himself, then toward the living quarters.

"Thank you," Mehra said. "I will wait here for Master Arngeir."

With that, he shuffled off to find Arngeir. Mehra swung her pack from her shoulders and grabbed the bundle of supplies for the Greybeards as she waited. As she pulled the parcel from her bag, Arngeir's voice drifted across the foyer.

"Nothing can be done in regards to this blasphemy. We must trust Paarthurnax and his judgment of the will of Akatosh."

Mehra agreed to that. She wasn't keen on messing with an Elder Scroll, but Paarthurnax would know the most on what was safe and acceptable.

Arngeir appeared in the awning closest to the foyer and gasped at the sight of her. Rushing over, he stopped in front of her, eyeing the new gouges in her armor.

"Dragonborn, what happened to you?" he asked. "Are you alright?"

Borri nodded in agreement and motioned in her direction.

Oh no. Everyone was going to ask about it, weren't they?

"I um," she mumbled. "I – I did – it's really – it's fine; nobody was hurt."

Arngeir looked at her in concern. "Did you do something reckless?"

"Yeah."

She sighed and looked at the floor.

"I'm acting like I can handle something that I likely can't," she admitted. "I guess if I'm going to be dumb about it, I should wait until after I defeat Alduin – if I defeat Alduin."

Arngeir pursed his lips. "It is your business," he replied. "But, yes, prudence is always in order. Come; let us sit and have some tea. I am sure that you must be cold."

Borri hurried over to Mehra to receive the parcel from her and mouthed a 'thank you'.

"Tea would be wonderful," she replied. "And Master Borri, it is the least I can do, given the challenges you all face up here."

Borri left the room with a nod, and Mehra followed Arngeir to the large meeting room to the side. As she entered the room, she couldn't help but notice that the place looked no different than when she last visited. They never had company; it was a lonely life, up here.

They sat next to each other at the oversized table and made pleasantries while they waited for the tea. Mehra brought out the Elder Scroll and allowed Arngeir to examine the outside of it. After a moment, he placed it on the table as if it were too much to handle. Mehra understood that feeling all too well; she wasn't keen on having it in her bag for so long in the first place. Within a few minutes, Einarth arrived with a kettle – he always did the tea – placed the kettle on the table, and left as quietly as he arrived.

They poured the tea and sat in silence for a moment as steam rose from the cups they held. There was something in Arngeir's expression that looked troubled – the look that Mehra saw when someone was debating whether or not to speak.

Out of respect for the fact that she turned his life upside down, Mehra didn't prompt him to speak. He stayed still for a moment, then put his teacup down without taking a sip.

"I got involved once with the affairs of the world below," Arngeir sighed. "My actions almost had me expelled from the order. Without the intervention of Paarthurnax, it would have happened."

Interesting. So there was a reason why he had such a strong feeling about the Blades and her plan to learn Dragonrend.

Mehra raised a brow. "So, I presume that you learned from this, and this is why you were so upset with me?"

He sighed deeply and stared down at the Elder Scroll. After a moment, he shook his head.

"It ought to have spurred me into action," he admitted.

"We all make mistakes," she said. "Miscalculations, misjudgments – whatever we want to call them. You were right to be hesitant; power can be intoxicating."

Arngeir gave her a sad smile. "Hesitation and refusal are two entirely different things. Refusal on the part of the rest of the order was what got me into trouble. Some time ago, the town below the mountain was besieged. We do not concern ourselves with war, but this time –"

He closed his eyes and let out a shuddering breath.

"The war was one-sided," he said. "A half a dozen or so small gates to Oblivion opened up outside the town. We saw them all the way from High Hrothgar. I argued with my Master to let us down to defend the innocents of Ivarstead. In the end, I left the monastery on my own and used the Voice to fight against the minions of Oblivion. Even to this day, I am convinced that I made the right decision; I do not know if the defenders from the College of Winterhold would have survived on their own."

Mehra blinked in shock. Then it was possible that they were about the same age. She wondered why he hadn't mentioned it when she first told him of her true identity, but perhaps, Arngeir found his age to be irrelevant to the situation.

And, Winterhold were in town at the time of the attack? Did that mean that Tolfdir was there, too?

"It was the only time in my life that I have killed," Arngeir continued. "The only time in my entire study of the Voice that I have used it for destruction. Gods forgive me: I was angry for what those daedra so callously did to that town. I wasn't so far removed from my past then that I couldn't imagine what it would be like to live in a town like Ivarstead."

He shifted in his seat and closed his eyes again. Mehra stayed silent, hoping that he'd continue as much for his sake as her own.

"To this day, I do not know why they chose to attack the town, especially in such a great number," he murmured. "It is one of the things I have had to meditate upon and attempt to cleanse from my mind – a task which has taken many, many years. The devastated face of that heartbroken young man from Winterhold who had relatives in the town haunts me."

Mehra nodded. It wouldn't make sense, except to one of the Blades. And while she didn't want to give any more reason to promote hostility between the Greybeards and the Blades, she felt that she owed Arngeir the truth.

"I know the answer to that, if you care to know it," she said.

He opened his eyes and looked up to meet her gaze – confused, shocked, hurt, and cautious.

"Is it our fault?" he whispered. "Our presence here on this mountain?"

Mehra shook her head. "That would make sense, but no. The Champion of Cyrodiil was from a small farm outside of Ivarstead. For all the gates he destroyed and plans he foiled, I have no doubt that Mehrunes Dagon wanted him to suffer. They destroyed the farm and killed his parents."

Arngeir put his head in his hands and shook. Wiping at his tear filled eyes, he sniffled.

"Horrible," he rasped. "I wish I had gone down sooner. But the past – there is no sense in dwelling on it. Oh, that poor man."

Mehra nodded in agreement. She didn't have the heart to tell him that Erich held candle vigils for everyone he thought he failed to save. At the time, she didn't know what it was about him that made him take such a strong personal responsibility for something he couldn't have changed, but now, she knew better.

She had to remind herself that she hadn't intentionally failed Kodlak or Skjor. What happened during the Red Year had nothing to do with her. But still, Mehra wondered what she could have changed had she been around at the right moment.

"It makes me worry about who Alduin might target," she admitted. "What if he burns down Whiterun while I'm gone? Or what if he goes to Winterhold or Solstheim and – and –"

She lacked the courage to complete her thought. Anyone she grew closer to was a potential target for a dragon attack.

"It is a worry of mine as well," Arngeir said. "Especially with meditating on what Paarthurnax has shared with you. This fight is righteous."

"And I hope I do it for the right reasons," she replied.

He dried his eyes and gave her a sad smile. "I have no doubt that you do. The things that you have seen will surely guide you on the correct path."

She hoped so. Mehra didn't feel the need to be all-powerful anymore, but she certainly had to in order to have a hope of defeating Alduin.

They talked the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, until Master Borri entered the room. As if he read Borri's mind, Arngeir announced that it was time for dinner. They all sat around the living quarters, ate dinner, cleaned up, and stoked the fire in the worn fireplace in silence – the way everything was done at High Hrothgar. Soon, it was time for bed; she had to get an early start in the morning if she wanted to get up to the peak in decent time.

Mehra unlatched her defaced armor and slipped under the covers of a bed that hadn't been used in a long time. The fire in the corner of the room burned down to embers. Even surrounded by half a dozen others, Mehra found the chill of the night and the whisper of the frigid wind outside lonelier than ever. A silence the likes of which she had never before known settled over High Hrothgar.

Somehow, Mehra found a way to fall asleep. Her mind brought her unpleasant dreams. She was an orphan too old to be living in an orphanage, so she was homeless on the cold streets of Daggerfall. Mehra stared at a wealthy person walking down the wrong street at the wrong time and wondered if she ought to slash him the same as she slashed all the others.

She wasn't like that anymore, but she was so hungry. She was cold – absolutely freezing. The streets were unforgiving and she had to do something to survive.

A warm weight settled on top of her, bringing the smell of elk hide. Mehra snuggled into it deeper as she shivered and yet another something covered her. She reached out to hold Erich but felt nothing more than the air.

Mehra snatched her hand back from the cold air, rolled over, and burrowed under the covers. He must have gone out to the balcony to have a bit of moon sugar for his leg pain. Frostcrag Spire was cold, but at least it was remote enough to keep them away from prying eyes. He didn't have to put on an act for anyone, up here.

Tomorrow, she'd have to thank Erich for covering her. He always did things like that, but she never really thanked him for it.

Mehra nestled deeper and covered the tips of her cold ears.

She dreamed of fire and of people screaming and running. Her hands were bound, rendering her defenseless. She wasn't sure exactly what material bound them; her gaze was drawn to the screaming people running by.

With some effort, Mehra looked away from them to see the sky on fire. A black dragon flew overhead and roared, his shout causing the earth to tremble. Whiterun lay in front of her, somehow unscathed from Alduin's fury. The fields and buildings surrounding the city burned, sending plumes of smoke high into the air. People screamed and ran as the guards pushed them out of the wooden city.

She ran toward Whiterun in desperation but found herself quickly winded. She wore the rags she had on her back when she was in Helgen, and she realized with a start that she was as frail as she had been at that time as well. Still, Mehra pushed forward in the desperate hope that she'd get to the city in time to help defend it. Sweat poured down her back.

All the while, Alduin circled overhead like a vulture.

A shout rose up from the city and her heart fell into the pit of her stomach.

"Begone!" Neloth yelled. "This tower was a great effort and I shall have you know –"

Alduin swooped down and plucked him from the balcony of her tower as if he were a field mouse. Mehra screamed, running down the road as quickly as she could. Still, it seemed as if none of her steps brought her any closer, and Neloth disappeared in Alduin's grasp.

Mehra despaired and slowed down until she fell to her knees. He was gone. The heat was absolutely sweltering, and she couldn't imagine him surviving so close to the fire.

"Citizen! Seek shelter!"

She turned to see a knight decorated in Imperial regalia seated atop a massive black horse adorned in nightshade. This was her fight; an Imperial knight would be nearly useless. Mehra opened her mouth to tell him she just needed a ride over to the city but the words died on her tongue as he lifted the face-plate of his helm.

Erich.

"You're going to fight him?" Mehra asked, looking up at Alduin in the sky.

"In theory, I guess," he sighed. He, too, looked up at Alduin in disbelief.

Alduin roared again, and the fiery sky grew darker. A vortex opened up above the city, revealing the dark cosmos beyond the clouds. Alduin circled around the vortex. He gained speed with each successive lap around it and the wind picked up.

Something sparkled in the center of the hole in the sky, far off in the distance. Mehra felt hope for the briefest of moments before it quickly turned to horror:

That was a moon, a meteor – a something – headed straight for Whiterun.

Erich let out a low whistle.

"Wow," he mumbled. "The moon I summoned was less impressive than that one, even."

His shadowy horse pawed at the ground in impatience. The meteor fell rapidly from the sky.

"Right," Erich sighed. "I guess we're going to go for it, then. Seek shelter, citizen! Shadowmere, let's get 'em!"

With that, he rode off alone to fight Alduin. A trail of fire bloomed from the flaming rock from beyond the mortal plane, drawing ever closer to the city. Desperate to do something, Mehra ran down the road behind him, but the horse was much too fast. She watched on in horror as Erich arrived at the city in the exact moment the meteor made impact.

Alduin laughed.

Neloth was dead. Erich was dead. Everyone was dead.

Mehra wanted to scream at Alduin. She wanted to shout that he come down to the ground and fight her on equal footing. But her mouth stayed silent, and as the wave of fire from the meteor's impact engulfed her, all she could think of was how she failed. How sad it was that it had to end this way.

The screams of burning mortals were all she could hear, now.

"Dragonborn, are you alright?"

Mehra jerked awake to see Arngeir standing nearby. Off to the side, Master Einarth grabbed a woolen mitten and grabbed a whistling kettle from off of the nearby hearth.

Slowly, she sat up and rubbed her eyes. Those weren't screams; it was just the kettle.

"I had a dream that Alduin summoned a meteor to Whiterun and everyone I knew and loved died a fiery, painful death."

Arngeir sighed and nodded. "A horrible dream," he said. "Reasonable, but still, horrible."

Einarth poured a cup of tea, placed the cup on a saucer, and shuffled over to the side of her bed to place the saucer on the rough nightstand to her right.

"Thank you, Master Einarth," she said. "Tea fixes a lot of things. Bad dreams are one of them."

Mehra threw the fur coverlet off of herself and sighed at the cool mountain air that greeted her. She must have gotten too hot during the night. A glance down revealed that she had two elk furs tossed over top of her.

"It is warmer than usual, today," Arngeir said. "It is my hope that this helps you as you travel up to the peak."

Mehra stared down into the tea. "It couldn't hurt."

Master Wulfgar passed by, motioned to the stack of furs, and gave her a sheepish look.

"Oh, it's alright," Mehra said. "I had a dream from living in Daggerfall so I probably was really cold. And honestly, I would have had a nightmare regardless. My mind likes to do that when I have a lot of stress. It's kind of like a tree dumping its leaves in preparation for winter."

He gave her an amused smile and turned to help with preparing for the morning.

They sat around the living quarters and ate a breakfast of bread with salt-pork and beans – something that kept well up in their remote location. As they ate, Mehra had a mind to bring them something different – perhaps a bag of zucchini or yellow squash. She knew it was against the general premise of a monk to have a luxury such as a perishable food that wouldn't keep for months on end, but she felt like they deserved it.

After they finished breakfast, Mehra brought her plate over to the washing tub at which Master Borri stood and grabbed the nearby linen to help him dry the dishes. Einarth snatched the towel from her hands quicker than she could react.

"We might not have guests," Arngeir chuckled, "but we still know our manners. No guest will do chores, Dragonborn."

Mehra sighed and let it be. She offered, at least. Turning, she approached the pile of armor near the foot of the bed she borrowed and began to put it on. Arngeir joined in to help her, pausing when he grabbed one of her pauldrons.

"I still wonder what manner of creature was able to do such a thing to dragon bone," he mused.

Mehra winced. "A um – a daedra."

The sound of shattering earthenware echoed throughout the stone monastery. Einarth muttered a quiet curse under his breath as he knelt down to pick up the pieces of the plate he dropped. The keep rumbled; her ears popped.

"Such things are the foolishness of the young," Arngeir sighed. "Is this the same one who foretold that you would meet Paarthurnax?"

"Yeah," she admitted. "He has no clue what's about to happen. It's a bit worrisome, to be honest."

He handed the pauldron to her. "It makes sense. Time was bent around the peak of the mountain, and without the Elder Scroll, it stands to reason that nobody – man nor daedra – could peer into the cut in time."

"Likely so," Mehra said.

She strapped the pauldron on and finished with the rest of her equipment. With nothing else to do, she grabbed her bag and shouldered it. This was it; it was time to find out if she could see into the past with the Elder Scroll and make it out unscathed.

"It's time," she sighed.

"We will watch from below," Arngeir said. "We have confidence in your abilities."

The other Greybeards nodded in agreement.

Mehra gave them a half-hearted smile. "We'll see what happens. Hope for the best and expect the worst, I guess."

She made her way through High Hrothgar with the Greybeards following behind her. Mehra passed through the heavy doors to the courtyard and descended the stairs into the melted runoff below. The Greybeards led her as far as the stairs upward, then stopped at the archway.

She was soon alone. Mehra battled the elements all the way to the peak, and though the seasons changed, the wind was as merciless as it had been the first time she climbed. Mehra shouted into the wind to make it stop. Each time it came back, she wondered if the mountain was cursed. A brief glance at the forgotten skeleton of a dragon buried in the snow had her thinking that perhaps, all the terrible deeds of the past changed something about the atmosphere around the mountain, just as it had with Red Mountain. Perhaps, the Time Wound had something to do with it.

Eventually, she wound her way around the path that gave a view of the peak. Paarthurnax perched off to the side, and as she drew closer, he turned to look at her, his head tilted in curiosity.

"You have it," he said, "the Kel. I feel it without even seeing it. The very bones of the earths are at your disposal."

Mehra picked her away across the ice-crusted snow toward the Word Wall.

"It was an adventure to get it," she replied. "So, I just stand in the spot that looks different and look at the scroll?"

Paarthurnax stared down at the Time Wound.

"Yes," he said. "Do not delay; Alduin will be coming."

Oh, no. So, now was the time? She –

She'd never be ready, the same as she was never really ready to face Dagoth Ur.

Mehra shuffled over to the blue-white sliver of wind in the center of the peak. As she stepped into the center of the Time Wound, the air around her warped her vision. This was certainly the origin of the mountain's wind. Was this a physical manifestation of time? Or was it merely the effect of the laws of time being cut?

She didn't think anyone other than Akatosh had the answer to that question. Steeling herself, she removed her pack, knelt down, and removed the Elder Scroll from her bag. In the bright light of Aetherius so close to them, the scroll shone brighter than the snow around them.

"These things regularly blind people," Mehra mumbled.

Paarthurnax seemed to consider this for a moment.

"Indeed," he said. "But the specifics are unknowable. Perhaps, it is repeated exposure. If it does blind you, I will hold him so you can use your new shout."

Mehra winced and looked away from the scroll. "I'd hit you both, then."

"If I am hurt, then I am hurt," he said. "Fahdon nos. We must stop him at all costs."

Mehra nodded. "Let's trust each other, then."

"Geh, Dovahkiin. We must."

She brought the shining scroll up before her eyes. Not knowing how to read the thing, Mehra went off of her instincts, held the scroll vertically, and grasped the small toggle on the bottom. She pulled on the bottom of the scroll, wincing at the mechanical clicking noise it made as the scroll unraveled.

The language of the ancients shone brightly before her eyes. In a flash, the whole scroll revealed itself, blinding her. Cursing, Mehra allowed the scroll to roll back up inside its chamber and blinked at the after-image of the scroll's contents.

Time trembled around her. The sky grew dark and faded to red. Mehra closed her eyes, shook her head, then opened her eyes, blinking at her surroundings. Everything sounded as if it were underwater but thankfully, the forbidden knowledge inside the scroll began to recede from the center of her vision.

"Gormlaith! We're running out of time!"

Above the rush of blood in her ears, she heard a voice with a thick accent. Mehra turned to see three battle weary Nords waiting at the peak – a younger warrior with a short beard, an elderly man in robes, and a female warrior.

As a dragon taunted them from above, Mehra watched for what they would do. The woman prowled forward with her blade in hand, a wicked grin on her face.

The dragon landed on the side of the mountain and as he lunged forward to snap at the mortals, the woman ran forward in what Mehra could only call an insane attack.

Sure enough, the woman pulled an Erich Heartfire. She leaped up onto the dragon's long neck and hacked at him with her sword as he swore and thrashed. While he was distracted, the other warrior rushed him head on and brought his axe down on the dragon's head. Still, the woman hacked at the dragon, eventually finding a weakness in his thick scales and killing him with a final blow.

"Know that Gormlaith sent you down to death!" she shouted.

Gormlaith jumped off of the dragon's neck and smiled at the warrior.

"Hakon! A glorious day, is it not?" she laughed.

He didn't look convinced. They argued for a moment about the battle, until Hakon turned to the robed man.

"Why does Alduin hang back?" he said. "We've staked everything on this plan of yours, old man."

He insisted to Hakon that Alduin would come, given how they openly defied him. Gormlaith relished in his words and kept her gaze to the sky.

"We have Dragonrend," she crowed. "Once we bring him down, I promise I will have his head."

Shaking his head, the old man stepped forward, standing directly in front of Mehra. Strapped to his back on top of a large broadsword was a cloth bag containing something the shape of which could only the Elder Scroll.

"Alduin cannot be slain like a lesser dragon," he frowned. "He is beyond our strength, which is why I brought the Elder Scroll."

He reached for the scroll on his back as Hakon gasped and swore.

"Felldir! We agreed not to use it!"

Mehra fought the urge to snicker. Even if the guy had a broadsword, he wore the robes of a mage and had to have some knowledge of the arcane. Mages would be mages, and warriors would be sticks in the mud about doing something dangerous or profane– the same as always. The fact that she was a bit of both perfectly summed up her complex feelings on using the damned thing to begin with.

"I never agreed," Felldir said. "And if you are right, I will not need it."

Hakon mumbled a curse under his breath. A roar sounded from above, cutting off the group's conversation. Alduin dove from the sky to land on top of the word wall.

"Meyye! Tahrdoiis aane!" he shouted.

Gormlaith stuck her chin out in defiance at his words, and Mehra wished she knew what he said. Together, they uttered a shout in Alduin's direction – a sound that Mehra knew and felt deep in her chest.

It felt like terror. It felt like every time someone threatened her on the road, every time an animal ambushed her, every time she fought in a duel. It was the horror of facing Dagoth Ur all alone and every time she found herself in Erich's clutches.

Joor zah frul. Mortal, finite, temporary. Mehra knew the meaning of the words in this shout with barely any knowledge of dragon tongue.

Alduin tucked his wings up in an attempt to fly up to attack the mortals from the sky, but his wings weakened and failed him. A blue-white glow enveloped him and he looked around in anger and horror.

"Nivahriin joorre! What twisted words have you created?" he growled. "Tahrodiis Paarthurnax! My teeth to his neck. But first, you will die in terror, knowing your final fate: to feed my power when I come for you in Sovngarde!"

Mehra winced. Could he even get into Sovngarde?

He was supposedly Aedric, so yes, right? Presuming that he knew how to get there, that was.

Gormlaith shouted and charged him along with Hakon. From the outset of the fight, Mehra had a bad feeling about the whole thing. Even downed, Alduin was too fast for them to land a good hit on him, and the fire that Felldir shouted at him wasn't hot enough to damage his thick hide.

As Gormlaith attempted to jump on Alduin's neck, he snatched her out of the air like a fly. His fangs pierced her armor with a pop and flung her against the word wall with a crunch.

Hakon shouted in horror. "No! Damn you! The Scroll, Felldir! Now!"

Felldir dashed back and opened the scroll as Hakon attempted to keep Alduin busy. In a loud voice, he began an incantation by calling on Kyne.

"Begone, World-Eater!" he shouted. "By words with older bones than your own we break your perch on this age and send you out! You are banished!"

An overwhelming sense of dread filled Mehra. This was the exact moment that these people unleashed all hell on her world.

Alduin backed away and ran into the word wall. "Cowards! So be it. I will feast on –"

"You are banished!" Felldir shouted.

Alduin disappeared in a flash of light. As time warped around Mehra and faded to the present, Felldir muttered an oath:

"May the spirits have mercy on our souls."

Mehra blinked and shook her head. The wind blew in chaos around her, echoing Felldir's words. They knew what they did and felt as if there were no choice. And while Mehra felt bad for them, she felt worse for the countless victims of her own time.

She drew in a breath and turned to Paarthurnax.

"Well, I'm not blind," she said. "I also discovered that the techniques I learned –"

A roar sounded above, cutting her off. Swearing, Mehra drew her sword. A black dragon circled the peak. He must have known the very second she opened the scroll.

"My belly is fully of the souls of your fellow mortals, Dovahkiin!" Alduin laughed.

Paarthurnax turned to glare at him in a way that made her painfully aware of her mortality. He pushed off of his perch and took to the air, just as Alduin shouted and created a vortex in the sky.

It was the same one from Helgen and her nightmare. Mehra cast a powerful agility and speed boost spell in preparation to dodge falling hailstones, but Paarthurnax was quick to counter Alduin's shout with his own. The strength of his Clear Skies shout was incredible.

Just as he said, Paarthurnax tackled Alduin, pushing him closer to the peak. Blood sprayed out from both of them where their claws tangled against each others' stomachs. Scared for Paarthurnax's safety, Mehra shouted at Alduin and gasped in relief when Dragonrend hit him.

Alduin screeched in mid-air as his wings failed him. "You may have learned the shout of my ancient foes, but you are not their equal!"

"No!" she shouted. "I am far more powerful!"

The arrogant words felt disgusting to her own ears.

Mehra clenched her left hand and drew upon the element of fire. It was scarce up here, but even as it was, the fire in her very blood surfaced to create a wicked spell in the palm of her hand. Without hesitation, she unleashed it on Alduin. The spell's power created a fire bloom so large that her ancient instincts twisted in horror for a second at the notion that it could be the mountain erupting instead.

Quickly, she cast a strength spell that made her break out in a horrible sweat. Her magicka was gone, but hopefully, it was just enough. With a shout, Mehra ran forward with her sword and slashed at him, taking him by surprise. Alduin barely dodged the attack by jumping back, but the Ebony Blade caught on the side of his neck all the same. The powerful daedric blade sliced through his scales and showered the snowy ground below. Slowly, her magicka seeped back into her body from her mind.

Alduin scrambled backward to the edge of the mountain, just as the effects of Dragonrend began to wear off. With a strong flap of his gigantic wings, Alduin took to the sky once again and bellowed fire in her direction. Mehra threw up a ward to block his shout, but his words were powerful. With the small amount of magicka she had, the ward began to crack beneath her outstretched palm. Mehra put her head down in the hopes that the thick top of her helm would better protect her face.

The ward shattered and the last of Alduin's breath hit her full-force. Fire rolled over her, scorching her armor and making any of its metal pieces unbearably hot. The scales and bones of Alduin's late ally protected her from the worst of it, even as the metal buckle of her helm seared her jaw.

Were she anyone but a Dunmer, the metal would have branded her.

Mehra winced and looked up just in time to see an enraged Paarthurnax roar and slam Alduin into the peak. Shards of slate flew in every direction. The mountain shook. Alduin snarled and shoved Paarthurnax off of him with his feet, hooking his claws into his belly.

She dodged to the side as Paarthurnax slid across the ground from the force of Alduin's kick. Grunting, Paarthurnax righted himself and took to the air once again.

Mehra prepared to use Dragonrend once again but the words stuttered on her tongue. Confused, she attempted another time and found herself met with the same issue. She couldn't harm him without the shout, and somehow, it wasn't coming out of her mouth.

Paarthurnax chased Alduin through the air above the peak, blasting at his tail with fire. As soon as the flames touched him, Alduin wheeled around and cracked him across the face with his spiked tail. Blood dripped down below. Cursing, Mehra drew on the element of fire once again, grateful that at least her magicka was restored. She exhaled and felt something, as if her dragon's blood had reawakened.

"Joor zah frul!"

Blue energy burst from her words toward Alduin, but he tumbled in the air away from the attack long before it could hit him. With a roar, Paarthurnax dove forward and rammed into Alduin, pushing both of them into her shout.

The wind deadened around their wings. Both dragons plummeted from the sky. Enraged at Paarthurnax for going against him again, Alduin turned to him.

"Fus ro dah!" he shouted.

The force of his shout tossed Paarthurnax through the air and off the sheer side of the mountain. Mehra heard a loud thud, scraping, and a rain of slate on the mountain below. Her chin quivered. What was she going to do? She couldn't lift him up!

Sensing her despair, Alduin chuckled. "Paarthurnax is weak. I am strong. You will pay for your insolence!"

He crawled closer and bellowed fire in her direction. With a little time left on her attribute spells, Mehra decided to put more energy into her fireball. She jumped to the side of his shout, tumbled, and threw her fireball at him as she righted herself. Mehra wasted no time in scrambling to her feet and charged him once again.

To her side, Paarthurnax clambered up the side of the mountain. The blue aura of Dragonrend surrounded him, but still, he crawled forward under the heavy weight of mortality.

The fire that Mehra unleashed died down to reveal Alduin covered in burns. A rage the likes of which she had never before seen shone in his red eyes, and just as Erich said, Mehra saw the souls of thousands of dead mortals reflected in them.

She wasn't frightened. She was angrier than ever and he was a jump away.

"How dare you!"

Mehra lunged forward and thrust the Ebony Blade straight into Alduin's eye. He let out an ungodly sound – one that was much more like a scream than a roar. Scrambling backward, Alduin managed to yank her sword from his eye just as Dragonrend wore off. He wasted no time in taking to the sky.

"Meyz mul, Dovahkiin," he grunted. "But I am Al-du-in, Firstborn of Akatosh! You have no hope of defeating me."

Paarthurnax took off after him for another strike, but Alduin batted him away with his tail and another shout. With Paarthurnax stunned and her tongue silenced, Alduin made a hasty escape.

The trail of blood he left behind him was satisfying, but still –

"You – " Paarthurnax panted. "You have no wings, Dovahkiin. You cannot follow. Drem."

As she did when she was younger, Mehra saw prey and she wanted to chase it.

"Dovahkiin. Ro. Remember the balance."

Mehra forced herself to calm down.

Paarthurnax was correct. There was nothing they could do right now, but soon, Alduin would answer for all of his crimes.

They just had to come up with a plan.


End file.
